


A way to your wild heart

by nieded



Category: Good Omens (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alien physiology, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Clone Wars, Crossover, Force Bonds, M/M, and crowley is sith, and they're both really bad at it, the one where fell is a jedi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieded/pseuds/nieded
Summary: On the oust from the Jedi Temple with an unsanctioned padawan, Master Fell is on the hunt for a lone Sith assassin and a trail of stolen artifacts. His past is about to catch up to him, and he must decide whether he still stands with the Jedi Order and the wisdom of the Council or give in to his desires.Readers only need a basic understanding of Star Wars lore. Jedi = good, Sith = bad. While this takes place during the Clone Wars, the events of the prequel run adjacent and unrelated to the journey Aziraphale is about to go on. Any pertinent information and context will be included in the notes of each chapter. Basically, I just wanted Aziraphale to run around with a lightsaber and the parallels of the Lightside and Darkside and Heaven and Hell are too strong with this one.Updates will be weekly, ratings and tags will change with the addition of chapters.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell and his padawan investigate a robbery of an old abandoned temple, setting them on the hunt for the Serpent.

Fell grunts as his boots slip in the sand, the hem of his robe dragging a slithering trail behind him. He hates the sand and the heat and the all-encompassing dryness of the desert. He turns back to look at Maricade, his unsanctioned padawan stuck on this miserable little moon with him, but she only smiles with a cheery little grin. He taps on his commlink and then pries open the back, revealing the wiring inside covered in sand. He shakes it with vigor before huffing, half-tempted to chuck it on the ground and leave it behind.

Maricade says, “There is no emotion, only peace,” reciting the first tenet of the Jedi Code in a sing-song voice. He glares at her, and she clears her throat. “Master Fell.”

He should reprimand her for being so cheeky, but to be honest, he’s never been comfortable with the sort of reverence padawans bestow upon their masters. His own master had been a bit of an idiot, pig-headed at best and a hazard to his entire platoon at worst. It wasn’t a surprise to Fell to hear he’d accidentally spaced himself before even reaching battle. Besides, Maricade’s impertinence breaks up the monotony of the desert and dry heat and the villagers’ withering mindset in the small colony established here on Igith, a lone moon forgotten by both the Galactic Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems. 

“Mind yourself, padawan.”

“You know, it’d be easier if you just switched to the sand-shoes like everybody else.” She points to the ground at the webbed, wide-based supports on her feet. 

He scowls, shaking sand out of his boot. He’d never even seen sand before until he left the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. Now he’s up to his ears in it. He ignores her eye roll. “How much longer until we reach Kleim?”

Maricade, a native to Igitha, shields her eyes as she looks up to the sky, tracking the landscape and landmarks. “Three, four kilometers? We should get there in another hour.”

“Great,” Fell mutters under his breath. 

They’d left the larger colonized city where they’d resided for the last several years by speeder. It was supposed to be a three-hour run that was waylaid by a faulty combuster and blown fan. Maricade, who was proficient in minor repairs only, couldn’t fix their small, broken down transportation. The distress call they’d received sounded quite urgent, and they’d sat there for fifteen minutes arguing about whether they should traipse back to the city or carry on to the small colonization by foot. 

It had seemed like a prudent idea to keep going in Fell’s mind, but he regrets it now in the beating sun. He takes a slow breath, the sand and heat scraping his throat and lungs, and tightens his shawl around his face. 

Maricade spends the rest of their journey chattering about the small colony Kleim, a closed-off community of “psycho Dewback-worshippers” who believe their monstrous god will come and save them.

“Dewbacks?” Fell asks, voice muffled under wrap. “Are those native to Igith?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, I think they got imported here by accident some centuries back. They’re a right nuisance.” 

“And--ah--these Dewback worshippers do not follow the local religion?”

She shrugs again, shuffling alongside him, her face and hair wrapped except for a small opening for her eyes and goggles. She looks like a Steelpecker-scare on sand-shoes, her matted blond hair sticking out like straw. “Us Igithians aren’t much of believers. What’s there to believe on this forsaken sandpit?”

Fell agrees after being stuck out here for the last five years on a wayward mission away from Coruscant. While the Senate and the Jedi Council rage war against the Confederacy, he’s been pushed off to the side on a wild hunt to find a mythological source of dark power on the very outskirts beyond even the Outer Rim. Despite reaching knighthood, he knows he’s not been a perfect Jedi, not one for war. He’d disagreed with the Council’s decisions to get involved in the Clone Wars, and combined with his unreliable connection to the Force, it’d been deemed a wise decision to send him off. 

“What about your lot?” Maricade asks. “What do you believe in where you come from?”

He pauses, stopping to catch his breath. He can see the dark shadow of a structure in the distance, what promises to be the entrance to the small, reclusive colony, Kleim. He thinks about his homeworld, a place he last saw when he was just 16, its white city walls made of limestone and marble, the three suns always shining, never knowing night or darkness until he arrived at the Jedi Temple. “Englorans believe in a single god whose name shall not be spoken. She is a benevolent goddess, the Alpha of the people.” 

“You sound wistful.”

Turning to look at Maricade, he’s grateful that his head wrap hides the pinched tightness around his mouth, the quick intake of breath. His relationship with a higher power, with his family back on Englora, has always been complicated. “I am a Jedi. I believe in the Force, the power of the Lightside. I find little comfort in speculating on intangible, omniscient gods.” If he says it with a little too much vigor, too rehearsed, Maricade says nothing.

They reach the secured gate to the village by sundown and are greeted through the peephole by one large swiveling eye. It peers at Maricade and then Fell, looking them both up and down. “No outsiders!” a voice says, screeching from the other side of the gate.

Fell interrupts the gatekeeper from closing the peephole with the butt-end of his saber, jabbing it between the sliding window and latch. “Excuse me,” he says, “We’re responding to a distress signal that came from these coordinates.”

The being behind the gate stops struggling with the window and stills. “You Jedi?”

“Indeed.”

“Hmph.” 

The window shuts, followed by a creaking groan as the entrance opens. Inside, an Abyssin, about Fell’s height with a singular purple eye and white hair, greets them with a curled lip, crossing his arms over his chest. “Took you long enough.”

Inside the hold, Fell is relieved to see a distinct lack of sand. The village is surrounded on two sides by large cliffs that buffer the heat of the desert. He breathes in the smell of greenery, the scent of roast meats cooking over fire pits, and the distinct sour smell that comes with every impoverished township through which he’s walked. These small spaces have begun to feel more like home than the Jedi Temple or Englora. 

“What happened here?” Maricade asks, shifting her rucksack up her shoulder. She yanks off her goggles and pulls down her headwrap, revealing her freckled skin and frizzy blond hair. She’s short for a human, barely taller than Fell’s elbow.

The Abyssin points a long, gnarled finger towards the small town center at the largest structure in the square. It’s made of dark obsidian-like stone and steepled to a point. Its heavy stone entrance is cracked in two pieces. “There’s been an attack.”

“What’s that building used for?” Fell asks. 

“Don’t know.” The Abyssin shrugs. “Long time ago, they say it was some sort of place of worship of your like, but it’s been abandoned for millennia. Everything else got built up around it.”

Fell takes in the lush greenery surrounding the small temple, the birdsong and the raucous villagers minding their business, the desert at their backs. He nods to Maricade. “There’s some sort of connection to the Force here, but I’m not sure that this temple was one of ours.” 

“Looks a bit dark, yeah?”

“Who breached the temple?”

The Abyssin grunts. “You ever hear of the Serpent?” He shudders. “No one saw nothing, but I can’t imagine it was anything else.” 

Maricade swallows and casts her master a look. The Serpent myth is enough to send even the bravest, strongest of Force users into shivers, a wicked and clever assassin affiliated with the Sith. “There might be something in there, an artifact, that the Sith are after to aid them in the war. We better check it out.” 

Fell says nothing but looks at his boots before straightening his shoulders. The villagers stop and stare as they walk through, unused to strangers. It’s a mix of mostly humans like Maricade. The Abyssin accompanies them partway, answering any further questions.

“And nobody else was harmed? No one saw what happened?” Maricade asks.

The Abyssin shakes his head, stopping just below the front steps of the temple. “Not that I know of, but I hear the Serpent has dark magic that can attack his victims for days or weeks after. This is as far as I’ll go.” It doesn’t take a Jedi to sense the dark foreboding void leaking from the entrance. 

Fell nods and thanks their guide before leading the way up the crumbling steps. Besides the most recent attack, the place has been abandoned, cobwebs and dust gathered in the corners. The stone entryway is heavy, at least three inches thick. He runs his fingers along the edge of the crevice, examining the quick and clean cut. 

“The amount of force used to shift these doors must have been massive,” Maricade says, peering into the entryway. Her voice echoes in the chamber. “A mining laser would have been too big to lug into the town square in the middle of the night, but what else would do this?”

Fell follows behind her, quiet save for his slow breaths and soft footfalls, remnants of sand crunching under his weight. “What do you know of this Serpent?”

She shrugs and runs her fingers over the carved walls of the temple. The light from the entryway casts long shadows that run deep into the chamber. “Just stories and rumors, you know, campfire stuff. You?”

“He has another name,” Fell says, voice low and distant. She turns to look at him, but he doesn’t look back, eyes skirting around the room, a small chamber only six feet wide with stone walls carved deep with intricate symbols. The language is lost to both of them. “Darth Vivaris, an assassin quite unlike the rest of the Sith.” He trails off, biting his lower lip. “Anyway, to see he’s been so far beyond the Outer Rim is concerning.”

“Do you know him?”

“We’ve--ah--met a handful of times. He’s a worthy opponent. A good fighter. Clever.”

Maricade crosses the room and through the archway into a long hallway. There’s a resonating buzz that cuts the silence, followed by a sliver of blue light as she unsheaths her lightsaber as a torch. “You sound like you almost admire him.” 

Fell shines his saber at the floor, stopping Maricade with a hand on her shoulder. “Wait.” He casts light along the path, revealing a slithering indent in the settled dust. “Yes, I see. Vivaris was here, certainly.”

“I thought ‘The Serpent’ was just a moniker.”

“No, like all Demagans, he is a shapeshifter.” 

They follow the winding path down the hallway. The trail cuts a straight line to the farthest room in the back, passing several other stone doors sealed shut and undisturbed. Whatever the Serpent was after, he knew exactly where to go. Like the entrance, the door to the backroom has been cleaved into two slabs and pushed aside, leaving behind a deep groove in the floor of the sliding mechanism. 

“I haven’t seen security systems in place like this since the ancient Jedi structures of the Old Republic,” Fell says. “Though this place feels… heavy. Dark.” 

The backroom leads to a large chamber with a dais in the center, several rows of abandoned and crumbling seats arced like a choir. They take their steps with caution, the light of Maricade’s lightsaber casting a cool blue light, a tiny beacon in the echoing space. 

The dais in the center rests on a pedestal. Its top is smooth, stone like the rest of the ancient temple, with a single engraved square in the center. Four triangular claws reach skyward, like prongs on a pendant or a ring, but the gem itself is missing. 

“There was a Holocron.”

“A what?”

Fell clears his throat, his bobbing larynx loud in the silence. “A Holocron is a repository of information, secrets.” He runs a tentative finger over one of the prongs, and it clatters to the floor, fragile after millennia of aging. The echo bellows out like a toll, the hairs on their arms rising. “The shape of the pedestal and the forks securing it in place suggest it was pyramidal in shape, in the style of the Sith Holocrons.”

Maricade shrugs. “Why keep secrets in an open room where anyone could grab it?”

Fell walks around the dais and examines it from top to bottom. He runs his fingers over a large crack in the stonework. “Most devices such as this one would have required the passing of a test, a commitment of some sort. Everything has a price.” 

“Like what?”

“Maybe a show of the Force? A demonstration of the Darkside? A--oh.” Fell stoops down and picks something off the floor. He gestures to Maricade to come closer.

She adjusts her grip on her lightsaber and brings it closer to Fell’s hands, illuminating a glossy, flat object in his hand. “A feather?” 

Fell shuts his eyes for one brief moment and lets out a shaky breath. “A sacrifice.” He turns the feather over and examines it, tracing the spine with his finger before bending back the barbs, watching them snap back in place. “To take the Holocron, the person needed to give up something precious.” 

“What’s so precious about a feather?” 

Fell’s face shutters for a brief flicker before tucking the feather in his belt. “I have a hunch about its properties, but I won’t know for sure without further testing.” He sweeps his robe behind him and pushes past her to the exit. “We’ve found all we can about this place.”

Maricade stumbles after him with a frown. She rolls her eyes at her master’s theatrics. “That’s it? Kleim gets attacked, and we find a feather, so it’s all good?” 

He ignores her, his footfalls heavy in the corridor leading back to the outside world. He slips between the two heavy slabs blocking their exit in a surprising show of grace for his size. Maricade tips out behind him, huffing.

“Well?” the Abyssin asks. 

“You had a very precious Sith artifact that the Serpent was after. Now that he has it, he won’t be back here again. You should be safe.”

The gatekeeper’s eyes widen. “An artifact? Here?” 

“Indeed.”

His single eye widens as he looks up at the forbidden, obsidian temple, mouth open. “A Sith artifact. I’ll be damned. What do we do about this place?”

Fell claps him on the shoulder and then straightens his robe, one hand floating down to touch his belt where he’d tucked the feather. “Keep it but don’t use it. It’s best left where it is.” He gestures to the lush greenery surrounding them, the birdsong and the trickle of water, a small oasis in the desert. “I think its connection to the Force has been a blessing for your village.” 

The Abyssin huffs and then puffs up with pride. “Well, it’s not _my_ village.”

“Still.” Fell smiles though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He glances back at the Sith Temple once before turning on his most charming smile. “Any chance you have transportation back to the city?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References:  
> 1\. The Clone Wars is a fight between the Galactic Republic (supported by the Jedi) and the Confederacy of Independent Systems (a trade coalition supported by the Sith). This takes place at a time when Obi-Wan Kenobi was a young man and Anakin Skywalker had not yet turned to the Darkside during the prequels.
> 
> 2\. For purposes of this story, Igith and the colony Kleim are made up, as are the Englorans and Demagans. You’ll see more of their angel-like physiology in later chapters. 
> 
> 3\. [These are Abyssins](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Abyssin).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell and Maricade return to the city and plan their next steps in the hunt for the Serpent. Meanwhile, Fell continues to keep his secrets close to his chest.

“Fetch me fresh water and tarine leaves from the market, will you?” Fell asks her when she walks through the door.

Maricade blinks and rubs at her eyes. She stands on the threshold of his small home, a single-room apartment in the heart of Kontoo, the only trade-hub in all of Igith. He has his back turned to her, rummaging through a footlocker, scrolls and datapads strewn at his feet. “Well, good morning to you too, _sir_ ,” she says, giving a little bow.

He looks up, still hunched over. His white hair is even more unkempt than usual. His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept since returning from the Sith temple. “Oh, right,” he says, smoothing out his wrinkled robe. “Good morning. If you would, please fetch fresh water and more tarine leaves from the market, I would appreciate it greatly. 100 credits worth.” He wrings his hands when he sees her wide-eyed look and shakes his empty cup at her. “I’ve been out for hours.”

She steps on his lightsaber discarded on the floor as she makes her way through the cramped space, kicking it to one side with her foot. “Master, are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” he says, back to rooting through his belongings.

“What’re you looking for?” 

He waves his hand at her. Typical. Maricade sniffs and rubs at her face, still tired from their return journey. They’d paid the Gatekeeper well over market price to rent his speeder to get back to Kontoo with the promise to keep it safe for the next time he came to the city. And still, Fell had complained for the duration of the three-hour trip, sitting in the passenger seat fussing with his head wrap and goggles. She looks at the strong texture of his robes, his neat and clean fingers and polished boots--even after traipsing through all that sand!--and wonders how he ever managed to get beyond the Outer Rim. 

“Find anything about the missing whatsit?” 

Fell’s hand flutters down to his waist where he tucked the black feather in his belt. He lets out a small noise of frustration and then straightens up, his back cracking as he stretches his arms high above his head. “The Holocron,” he says, correcting her. “Unfortunately, no.” For a long moment, he stands with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the wall. Then he sniffs once and collapses on the foot of his small cot.

“Have you been practicing your meditation?” he asks.

Maricade shuffles her feet. “We really haven’t had time,” she says, muttering under her breath.

He glares. “Meditation is a vital and important part of your training. We agreed upon daily practice to help you become attuned to the Force.” 

She huffs. She’s never really mastered meditation, sitting cross-legged on a hard floor with her eyes closed, listening to the whir of her faulty generator, waiting for some holy unifying connection with the Force. Her relationship with the Force has always been instinctual. She trusts it. When she reaches for it, she knows it’ll be there. Though she hasn’t mastered--or become remotely proficient, really--in more than the manipulation of small objects, she has a sixth sense for danger. Fell has always told her that her instincts are her best asset, that he’d never seen anyone with such an innate ability for foresight and premonition. 

Whatever the Serpent has been up to, however, she’s not sure. She gets a muddy feeling about it when she tries to meditate, and it just leaves her frustrated. It doesn’t help that she barely picked up a trace of his Force signature while investigating the abandoned temple. Her gaze flutters down to her master’s waist where the feather hides. If only she could get her hands on it, she’d be able to learn more about the Sith assassin.

Fell interrupts her thoughts, bundling his robe around his chest. “If you won’t practice with me, then run along to the market. We need--”

“Tarine leaves, yeah yeah.”

“And fresh water _and_ \--” Fell pauses and pats at his robes, then the desk until he finds a small datapad. He tosses it to her. “We mind as well stock up on rations. We’ll be departing within the week, sooner if I have any say so.”

Maricade freezes. Fell watches her with a slow, small smile as her whole face breaks out into a grin. “We’re going off-planet?”

“Indeed.”

“I haven’t been off-world since I first landed in this heap!” She lets out a wild whoop and throws a fist in the air. “Oh crick, I have to tell Busa!”

“Don’t forget the tea!” Fell shouts after her as she dashes through the door. He hears her shouting down the hall all the way to the elevator. 

Maricade sprints down the narrow alley, avoiding the pits in the dirt path, her hand clutching her bag tight under her arm. She wills the people around her to step out of her path, a small push filled with all her joy. She’s going _off-world_.

Igith, a miniscule planet off the hyperlane, has one larger city, Kontoo. To call it ‘big’ would be an overstatement. It’s surrounded by a few secluded colonies, like Kleim, mostly populated by humans and the occasional non-human on the run from the Confederacy or the Republic, or both. Nobody bothers Igith, a graveyard for broken bounty hunters, smugglers, mutineers, and jailbreakers. 

She was ten when she ended up here on the back of a small cargo ship, hidden in a freight. In the five years since then, she’s stolen and lied and scraped her way through its alleyways, made friends with the rats and enemies of the enforcers. There had been only one person who caught her as a pickpocket, though it was enough to make her give up thieving for life.

She remembers that day like a holovid on rewind. Kontoo’s sky was grey and dusty, and her last ration had been carefully spread out across the last three days. She needed a few credits, that’s all, and she could barter for the next day’s worth of food for her and Busa. 

Then, in the middle of the main road, a flash of white caught her eye. She’d never seen garments so bright and skin so pale. People around Kontoo didn’t look _clean_. The stranger was new and signaled it like a beacon to all those around him in his oiled leather boots and tailored robes. There was an openness to his face, his round red cheeks and clear eyes, the look of someone who had yet to be tainted by hunger and persecution. _Easy_ , she thought.

She followed her mark for several blocks as she darted in between villagers and behind stalls in the market. He seemed to stop at every merchant, turning over the goods in his hands, speaking in the most refined Standard, the likes of which she had not heard since she was four. The people around her ignored her. Her height and age made her unobtrusive, and the villagers’ eyes glided over her like water. She snuck up behind the newcomer with ease. 

Pretending to bump into him, she slid a hand against his belt as she fumbled. “Oh dear,” the stranger said, steadying her shoulder.

“Terribly sorry, sir. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” She could pull off being younger than she was and let her downcast face and wide eyes do the work. She felt the small clip in her hand tug free from his belt and tucked it up her sleeve.

Now that she was up close, she inspected him a little more. He was taller than he looked, and his white hair stood up in an unruly mess. His robe's fabric felt stiff, of sturdy quality, though it didn’t look rich or expensive. Everything about him seemed a little bland if unusual, just a little off in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. 

“It’s quite all right,” he said. He had a low voice, deeper than expected, rich and mellow, but there was a lilting quality to each word. “What’s your name?”

She paused. This man could be of some influence. Giving him her name was as good as a conviction if she got caught. Still, there was something about him that made her want to tell the truth. “Mari, sir.” 

“Just Mari?”

She shrugged. “I mean, it’s short for Maricade. That’s me. Maricade of Igith.” She rocked on her heels and winced at her nattering. She was starting to get so nervous standing around her mark for too long. 

“You may call me Fell,” he said in return. He tilted his head, studying the way she fidgeted. “You remind me of an old friend, and you look in need of a good meal. Where do you recommend going for some lunch?”

“I’ve never eaten at any of the cantinas before.” She couldn’t afford to, but even if she could, none of the food on Igith looked very appetizing. Standard rations were at least consistent and predictable. “And anyway, I have to get back to my friend.”

Fell stopped her with a look. It wasn’t stern or frightening but commanding all the same. “A good meal was what you were looking for, wasn’t it?” he asked. Then he reached into his billowed sleeve and pulled out his clip. 

Maricade gaped. 

“Come walk with me, Maricade of Corellia.” 

“What?” she asked. Her voice pitched upwards, and her whole body froze. “What did you call me?” 

He turned to look at her fully, tucking both of his hands into his sleeves. His face was patient but firm. “I called you by your name.” 

She swallowed and licked her lips. Her throat was dry suddenly, the desert wind whipping through the main road of Kontoo. “I said I was from _Igith_. What business do you have going around saying I’m from Corellia?”

Fell smiled and extended a hand to her. “Let me buy you lunch and a few rations for you and your Busa, and I will tell you what I know.” 

Maricade felt the hairs on her arms stand up, and her vision narrowed down to his outreached hand. She had a good feeling about this, a spark of knowing that Fell would later tell her was her gift of premonition. She nodded and stepped beside him.

She’d heard of Jedis before, but he was nothing like the legends. Wizards, they called them. They could lift boulders and stop moving speeders mid-flight. Their laser swords could cut through anything. In all of the last three years she’s spent with Fell, however, she’s hardly seen him use his lightsaber for anything beyond a doorstop, and he seemed to rely more on negotiation than mind tricks. 

“I believe the currency for secrets around here is credits?” he’d asked once. Money could get you anything in Kontoo. People were desperate enough. “Then that is what I shall use.” 

And now he was going to take her _off-planet_. 

“Busa! Busa!” she shouts, skidding to a stop outside the back of the small distributing center. She bangs on it with her fist until it swings open.

“What?” A boy steps out, grunting as he pushes open the rusted door. He stands there, swimming in his oversized jumpsuit and a heavy welding mask. He shoves the mask up and out of the way, revealing the face of a young kid underneath. “Mari, I’m working,” he says with a whine. “If Retchel catches me slacking off, I’ll be right back at Corrections.”

“Forget Retchel. I have better news. Master Fell is taking me off the planet!”

“What?” Busa drops his hand in surprise, and the back door goes swinging shut with a loud slam. They both startle before he grabs her hand and drags her around the corner and out of sight. “What am I supposed to do without you?” he asks.

She slaps him on the shoulder. “Idiot, you’re coming with me.” 

He shakes his head. “Nah, Fell doesn’t like me. He’s always curt with me whenever I’m around.”

“That’s just how he talks. He’s like that with everybody.” Maricade grips him by both shoulders and shakes him. He’s slight, all angles and gangly limbs, two years younger than her. “I can’t leave this place without you.”

He jerks away from her and rubs his shoulders, sore from where she grabbed him. “How long are you going to be gone then?”

“That’s the thing,” she says, dropping her voice. “I have a feeling we won’t be coming back.”

Fell rests with a heavy sigh at the foot of his cot, kicking his footlocker shut. He fumbles for his belt and pulls out the sleek black feather, running his fingers over it, a spike of jealousy running through him that Crowley would leave such a monumental gift behind at the altar of a Holocron. He examines the sharp barbs, careful not to cut himself. A primary feather of a Demagan--especially _that_ Demagan--could cause trouble in the wrong hands. 

He’s not entirely sure he’s the right hands. After all, Crowley hadn’t given him this feather. He had to scavenge for it like a beggar looking for scraps. 

Fell rolls out his shoulders and settles his weight on the bed. He closes his eyes and slows his breath, clearing his mind. He focuses on his foremost emotion. Grief, a caving pit, a hollow cavity, the earth sinking beneath his feet. He captures a glimpse of a memory, the floor rising up to meet him, his hand outstretched through the Force for a hand in another planet, slipping out from his reach. Two yellow eyes, wide with terror and dawning horror. 

He shakes his head and swallows, letting it go, beckoning the next emotion. Frustration. Walking through sand uphill, a perilous climb towards finding the truth. He’s exhausted from searching, on the brink so many times of giving up. And now he has Maricade to think of. What was he thinking taking her in? Guilt. Overpowering. Cloying. He’s responsible for her, just fifteen. A thief but a child. Clever but naive. He’s going to lead her astray. He was never ready to be a master. What if she ends up like him? Disjointed and broken, half a soul? 

His commlink beeps, and he snaps back to wakefulness, his meditation disrupted. Not that he could call it much of meditation, he thinks. He doesn’t begrudge Maricade for finding it difficult and tedious. Letting go of one’s emotions before it overtakes him is an uneasy task, one that he’s always struggled to master.

 _Bleep bleep, bleep bleep_. 

Fell leaps off the bed and snatches it up, fumbling to turn on the receiver. A blue light spills out from the top as the hologram begins transmitting, a blurry and distorted figure of a woman taking shape through lightyears of space. 

“Jedi Fell,” the woman says with a bow.

“Master Jocasta Nu. I hope you’re calling about good news?”

The woman nods. She has a severe face, her graying hair tied in a neat bun. She is the Lore Keeper and librarian of the Jedi Temple in Coruscant, a position Fell has envied since he was a child. “I looked into the missing Holocron per your request, though we’ve had no record of a Sith temple ever existing on Igith. The planet itself has barely any mention in our records.” 

Fell frowns and tugs down the sleeves of his Jedi robes in nervous habit. “Then what’s the good news?”

“I’ve located a similar-looking temple in Lothal. It’s a Jedi temple that was built on the ruins of the Sith.”

Fell turns that name over in his mind, trying to recall anything he could about the planet. “Lothal?”

Jocasta sighs, a flicker of emotion glancing across her face, too blurry and distorted for him to make out through the call. “It used to belong to the Republic. They’re facing massive economic collapse, but we haven’t been able to send aid because we’re already stretched so thin in our efforts against the Confederacy.”

Fell closes his eyes and releases a slow and controlled breath, his fingers clenching and releasing at his side and out of sight of the transmission. He bites back a curse.

“I know how you feel about the Clone Wars, Fell, but should the Republic fall into the hands of the Sith, more than just one single planet will face destruction and despair.”

“Yes, Master.”

Jocasta Nu stares at him with a piercing glare through the glitching holovid transmission. “Heed my warning. This will not be easy for you to accomplish alone. It takes two trained Jedi to open the temple.” Then her face softens. “You’ve always been a favorite pupil of mine. I wish you would return to the temple and join the cause of the Order.”

Fell bites his lip and nods, thinking about his secret padawan. “Yes, Master. I understand. I have a mission, a trial to complete, and cannot return to Coruscant until it’s completed.”

She nods. “May the Force be with you,” she says, “and a gram of common sense.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References  
> 1\. “Crick” is an expletive, as are ‘kriff, kriffing, chuba, etc.” I get it. Star Wars is owned by Disney now, but sometimes we all just need a good, loud “fuck!”
> 
> 2\. Aziraphale calls Mari “Maricade of Corellia.” Corellia is a core planet that is known for its ships and voyages. It also is where Han Solo was born! It’s known for its seediness, gangs, and their black market.
> 
> 3\. I realized while writing this that the Force is really just a chance for Aziraphale to do magic tricks, and I promise you, it will infuriate Crowley in this universe as much as it does in canon. 
> 
> 4\. Jocastu Nu is from The Clone Wars. She served on the Jedi High Council (amongst the likes of Yoda, Obi-wan Kenobi, and Mace Windu), and also held the title of Chief Librarian. You bet Aziraphale coveted her job.
> 
> 5\. Lothal is a planet on the Outer Rim, out of the way of the Galactic Republic and the Confederacy. At this time, it’s mostly ignored by both sides of the war because it’s so out of the way of any trade. A few years after this, Ezra Bridger from Rebels will be born here. If you haven’t watched _Star Wars: Rebels_ , I definitely recommend it! 
> 
> 6\. Jedi have to go through a series of personal trials to move up in rank. An example of a personal trial is when Obi-wan Kenobi achieved “Master” status when he defeated Darth Maul in the Phantom Menace after the death of his own master, Qui Gon Jinn. Though Fell is called “Master” by Maricade, he is not officially a Master Jedi. He is a Jedi Knight. Jedi Knights are allowed padawans--or trainees--but they must be approved by the Council first. Aziraphale being Aziraphale has decided to forgo this completely. Some Jedi are sent on Trials by the Council or their Master. Obi-wan fell into his trial by accident and prevailed in combat. Aziraphale has taken on his own trial which we will learn more about in future chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell lands in Lothal with a band of misfits on the hunt for the Serpent.

Fell jerks awake as the ship rattles, reaching for his belt. He fumbles for a moment in search of his lightsaber before his hands fall on something soft and almost warm to the touch. The feather, he realizes. Right. He hasn’t gotten it to do what he wants it to do. When he holds it up and focuses on it, his vision goes blurry. Sometimes he gets an image, a streak of red, a low and angry hiss, before jerking back to the present with his fingers singed. 

Instead, he reaches an outstretched arm off the side of his bunk and concentrates for a moment. His lightsaber rattles on the other side of the room before zipping into his hand. He focuses on the cool metal grip of his weapon, slowing his breaths. 

The ship shakes again. 

He dreamt of something, more an emotion than a scene. It felt heavy and familiar, like he was young again at the Jedi Temple, running through the halls while laughter chased behind him. They were meant to be serious and studious, and Fell tried to be, but it was difficult all the time when his companion was so devious. They used to get into so much trouble, he thinks with a wry smile, two boys a few years apart, meant to be enemies like their warring species. Instead, they’d been inseparable.

He shakes his head. That was before they’d come into their powers. 

There’s a low, groaning sound rumbling from the hull of the ship. Fell swings his legs over the edge of the bunk and pulls on his boots. He forgoes his robe and slides open the door to the sleeping quarters before stomping out into the main cabin. “Warlock!” he shouts, bracing against the wall as their transport shakes. “Warlock! What the bloody hell is going on?” He pushes his way into the cockpit and leans over the pilot’s chair. “I thought you said you knew how to fly.” The spacecraft makes a groaning sound.

“I do, sir!” their pilot says. “But the best ship on Igith is still only half as good as the worst anywhere else. Why do you think nobody leaves the planet?”

Fell lets out a flustered curse just as Maricade slides into the cockpit, clinging to the corner of the threshold. “This ship is gonna shake apart if we go into hyperspace.” 

The pilot, Warlock--a young man claiming to be twenty-four but Fell wouldn’t put past nineteen--sneers at her. “I said the ship is crap. I didn’t say _I_ was crap. I’m the best pilot you’re going to find on this half of the galaxy!”

“Oh, really?” Maricade braces herself and slides into the co-pilot’s chair. “You’re saying that to a Corellian.”

Under his breath, Fell mutters, “Oh, so _now_ you’re Corellian,” which earns him the side-eye just as Warlock slaps her hands off the control panel.

“Don’t touch that.”

“Don’t touch me!”

Just as Fell is about to yell, the ship lurches, sending him backward as they leap to hyperspace. He lands on the hard metal grating as he hears a jubilant ‘Wahoo!’ come from the pilot’s chair and a long string of furious swearing from Maricade. “Might you have mentioned seatbelts?” he asks, straightening himself out. 

Warlock has the decency to blush before shrugging. “Oops?” 

“Maricade, with me, please.” He leads her out of the cockpit. Their small transport ship is barely wider than two X-Wings, the walk to the cargo hold a mere ten steps. What he wouldn’t give to be on a Republic vessel right now. He shakes off the lingering fog of his dream before opening the small hatch and stepping down through the hole. His voice echoes as he shouts up at her through the tunnel. “I want to go over our supplies before we touch down on Lothal so we know what we need to get.”

Maricade lets out an undignified yelp. “Wait!” When Fell pauses his descent and looks up at her, she stutters. “Um… Don’t go in the cargo hold?”

Fell sniffs and tilts his head, disapproval writ on his face. There’s a sarcastic bite to his tone, too tired to hide it. “Whyever not? Are you afraid I’ll find a stowaway?” 

He rolls his eyes and slides down the ladder, turning to pound on the nearest cargo freight. There are five in total, two of them theirs and the other three trade goods Warlock plans to sell off-planet. He pounds on the second one.

“Look, Master Fell, I don’t know why you’d think there’s someone on the ship. That’s preposterous!” she says as she follows him down. She stumbles on the last word, a recent addition to her vocabulary after spending so much time around him. There at least three things a day he announces that are preposterous. 

Fell knocks on the next one and is met with silence, but he pauses there, staring at his padawan. She gives a weak smile. Then he kicks the side hard and hears a muffled yelp from inside. He tugs the lock open and peers inside. “Busa, you can come out now.” The boy slithers out. “I was wondering how long Maricade was going to leave you in there. It’s a long flight to Lothal.” He makes to climb back up to the main cabin but pauses in front of her. “Make sure to add more rations to the list for when we touch down.”

Busa crawls out, a surly frown on his face. “See, I told you he doesn’t like me.” 

She shrugs, a little surprised. “Honestly, I thought he was going to space you.” 

  
  


Busa stands wide-eyed when they dock, standing with one end of a crate in his hands, feet locked in place. Maricade takes a step forward and stumbles, looking back at the person who is supposed to be sharing the heavy lifting. “You coming or what?”

He shakes himself. “Yeah! Just give me a sec.” He shifts the weight of the container with a grunt. “What’s in here anyway?”

Maricade rolls her eyes. “It’s all of Master Fell’s books and scrolls. I don’t know why he doesn’t just upload them all to a datapad.” She gestures with her head at the fading backs of the pilot and her master, lugging a separate crate away from the docking bay. “Come on, we gotta catch up!”

Lothal is just as run-down and dirty as Igith. The difference is it’s less sandy and brighter, its sun rising a little higher. The buildings are taller but no less decrepit, and there are definitely more species roaming the streets, but she recognizes the same look of hunger and exhaustion. Still, Lothal _is_ impressive. Its market is three times the size of the one in Kontoo, and they pass a wide variety of strange and colorful fruits, exotic meats, and animals that none of them can afford.

Fell also looks a bit more worn and run down than the day Maricade first met him, wandering through the streets of Kontoo with a fascinated expression on his face. Today, he looks haggard. As if reading her mind, he twists his head over his shoulder and says, “Who could sleep on a scrap-heap like that?” 

Warlock huffs. “We landed, didn’t we?” 

“Barely,” Busa mutters under his breath. 

They turn to look back at the Beam--or Bean as Warlock called it with affection--just as a side-panel falls off with a loud creaking groan. The shipyard workers scatter. “We need a tow on dock two to the scrapyard!” one of them shouts. 

Fell sighs. “We’ll have to find new transport or else we’ll be stuck here forever. It’s best if we get settled. Come along.” 

“Um, where exactly are we going?” Busa asks. They pass several abandoned buildings, the fronts crumbling, the awnings torn and falling down. He jumps a little when he sees two sets of eyes peering out from one of the darkened windows. 

Fell taps Maricade’s shoulder with his free hand and gestures down an alleyway. “Open your mind and your senses. Be on the lookout.”

“For what?”

“A good place for us to set up camp. We need somewhere secure and defendable from thieves. With four of us, it should be easy to guard our belongings.”

“Oh!” Busa says. “In that case, you don’t need your weird magic powers. You need one of us.” He’s taken note of all the condemned buildings and alleyways that lead off to who knows where. If he were back home, he’d have every nook and cranny memorized within a day. 

Fell turns around and looks at the three kids lined up in a row in varying heights and sizes, all with the same smear of filth on them, the grime under their nails permanent, the gleam of hunger in their faces as common as air on the streets of Kontoo. Busa is an expert at navigating pathways, finding safe alcoves and tucked away spaces to sleep for a night. He stands a little taller. 

“Well, there may be some use for you after all,” Fell says with a nod. He turns to survey the street ahead of them and directions them under an unoccupied awning. “Maricade, go with him. Warlock, I need you to scout for any information you can about the city. Who’s who and who should be avoided.” Then he reaches up behind Warlock’s ear and pulls out a handful of credits. He gives it to him with a grin. “Take it to the tavern... if you’re old enough to get in.” 

The pilot scoffs but pockets the currency.

“I will be here with our belongings trying to locate the Jedi Temple.” Fell stares at them for a moment and then claps his hands. “Hurry! Off you go!”

They scramble off in separate directions. 

Left alone under the awning, Fell settles in to attempt another try at meditating. He casts a Force shield around himself to not be disturbed and sits cross-legged on top of one of their crates. Then he pulls out the black feather and holds it between his fingers. He studies it for a long time with a frown on his face, brows together in concentration, trying to find any trace of its owner. Then he closes his eyes and begins.

Warlock tries to rub some of the grime off of his face and straightens out his clothes. It’d been no problem getting a drink in Igith, running side jobs for the bartender. Now he’s on an unfamiliar planet with unfamiliar looking people, far away from home. He makes eye contact with a passerby with prominent scaly ridges on their face and sharp claw-like fingers. The stranger stares back and opens his coat, and Warlock catches sight of the blaster tucked into its holster. He looks away, letting out a slow breath. Blast Mr. Fell for convincing him to come along.

He slips inside the cantina, keeping his head down as he swerves through the tables to get to the bar. He fakes confidence and swagger as he sits down and slaps Mr. Fell’s credits on the table. 

“ID?” the bartender asks through his breathing mask, making him sound a bit robotic, a hiss following after every sentence.

“Um, er… Left it on the ship. Just a traveler passing through.”

“No ID, no service. I don’t want any scoundrels in my cantina.” 

A hand slaps Warlock on the back, and a man slides into the seat next to him. “Garmak, he’s with me. Pour us a shot of Alderaan whiskey.”

The bartender grumbles, and his respirator lets out a rather annoyed sounding hiss. He turns and fetches two shot glasses and a bottle. While his back is turned, the stranger nods to him. 

“Uh, thanks,” Warlock says. 

“You look new.” 

The man takes the shot glass as it’s handed to him and downs it one gulp. Warlock has never drunk anything other than the bitter ale made locally just outside of Kontoo, something incapable of being chugged. He frowns and then throws the whiskey back, coughing as it burns on the way down.

“You _are_ new,” the stranger says, appraisingly. 

Warlock mimics him and throws the glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes a long look at the person next to him, humanoid, long limbs and a narrow face. He has a hat that dips down, creating a solid visor over his eyes, the like Warlock has only seen in holovids of pilots from the Republic. He looks cool, like a real fighter pilot in his all-black jumpsuit and sturdy, bantha-leather boots. 

“Word of advice,” the man says. “You’ll want someone to forge you an ID. Doesn’t matter if you’re Republic or a Confederate. People around here don’t trust anybody who doesn’t have some sort of identification or a way to track you down.” 

Warlock stores that information away. It’s good to know if they plan to be here long. He gets a bad feeling from this place. “And where can I get that?”

“Nuh-uh, you tell me something first. Why are you in Lothal anyway? This place is a shithole.”

He looks around. Mr. Fell hadn’t been particular about his goals when he hired him for his ship. Warlock shrugs. “All I know is that we’re looking for some type of temple.” And then, because he’s next to a bonafide pilot, not just an amateur flyer like himself, he adds, “I’m here with a _Jedi_.”

The man tilts his head and makes a surprised shape with his mouth, though Warlock can’t see the rest of his expression. He leans forward. “Really?” he asks with a drawl. “What’s a Jedi doing out here? I thought they’re all off fighting in the Clone War.”

Warlock gives a shrug. He’s only interacted with Mr. Fell a handful of times and has no idea why he had been on Igith of all places. He doesn’t really seem to be the fighting type, not like the ones he’s seen on the holovids. He’s spent hours watching news feeds, mesmerized at the sight of the Hero of the Republic, Anakin Skywalker. Mr. Fell pales in comparison. “Don’t think he’s much of a fighter,” he says. “He’s here with his padawan named Mari. She’s nice.” 

“A Jedi out here with a padawan. How interesting.” The man tilts his head to the other side, and Warlock is struck suddenly by the oddity of his movements, the hypnotic sway of his body. Even though he can’t see his eyes, he still feels like he’s being watched, studied, preyed upon. He shifts back on his stool. “Tell me, what’s the name of this Jedi?”

Warlock feels a chill down his spine, the hairs on his arms standing up like a warning. “Er, uh, that’s confidential.”

“What’s the harm?” The man’s voice is smooth and melodic, a hint of something sibilant in the exhale of his breath. “You already told me the name of his padawan.”

 _Shit_ , Warlock thinks, a bloom of panic rising in his chest. 

The stranger looms closer and smiles with a menacing, wide grin, two sharp teeth curving over his bottom lip that Warlock swears hadn’t been there before. “Go on. You can tell me.” 

The room fades out, and his vision tunnels. Warlock tries to fight it, but then there’s an intrusion in his mind, a hissing voice that ricochets and tears through his thoughts. 

_Who’sss the Jedi?_

He tips back off the barstool, body going limp as he shouts, “Mr. Fell!” against his own will, throat burning as the words are ripped out of him. The voice in his head shrieks with a shrill, angry hiss, and then Warlock blacks out, his head cracking on the stone floor in the cantina. 

Fell feels a pulse of something dark and insidious, a scorching heatwave coming from the direction of the cantina. His eyes fly open, disrupting his meditation. He knows that dark sensation, a mutilated version of the Force signature he once recognized like the back of his hand or his own heart. He gasps. “Crowley!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References
> 
> 1\. If you’re wondering why Lothal looks a little different here than in Rebels, it’s because it hasn’t been occupied yet by Sith. The Empire does bring Lothal back to life but also under strict control. At this point in the story, Lothal is struggling, ignored by both the Republic and Confederacy because they’re too far off from the hyperlane to be a good place for commerce. Economically, they’re suffering.
> 
> 2\. Warlock mentions Anakin Skywalker as the Hero of the Republic. If you’ve only seen the prequel trilogy, you might be wondering why he was considered such a hotshot because he was written as being very whiny in the movies. If you check out the animated series Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Anakin is kind of cool, pretty brash, and definitely worth the title as the Hero of the Republic. He’s a much more likable and forgivable character, and his relationships with Padme and Obi-wan are more fleshed out, which makes the events of the Revenge of the Sith sadder.  
> You will hear me talk about the Clone Wars a lot in this, mainly because the animated series is my favorite. Between that and Rebels, it has the most world-building, which makes it an enjoyable playground to borrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell and his wayward squad of misfits locate the temple, and he reveals a truth about his history with the dark assassin.

_Maricade!_

Busa stops when his friend grabs his arm, digging into his flesh with her fingers. “Mari, what’s wrong?”

_Maricade!_

She doubles over and gasps, dropping to the dirty ground, scraping her hands over the broken pavement. “I don’t know. It sounds like Master Fell.” Her voice is raw, throat tight, clamping down as a wave of nausea hits her.

Busa looks up and around. People drift by, barely giving them a glance before continuing on their way, used to seeing strange things and sick people in the back alleyways of Lothal. “I don’t hear anything, Mari.”

_Help!_

She gasps and looks up. “He’s in my head!” Her eyes are wide and bloodshot, wet in the corners and pulsing in agony. She lets out a grown and clutches the side of her head as she stumbles. “Something’s happened. We need to go back.” 

He’s never understood the Jedi thing, but he can’t deny the worship Mari has for her master. Fell never seemed like much, too clean and too proper to fit in in Kontoo, never seeming to adapt or blend in no matter how long he stayed. But if Mari hears voices in her head, then maybe Busa was wrong about just how powerful Mr Fell is. Or maybe all this talk of the Force has gone to her head. “Come on,” he says, grabbing her arm and hauling her upwards. “I can get us back.” 

She’s limp in his arms, staggering, eyes blurry and unfocused. Maricade brings her free arm to her head, feeling everything throb. Master Fell’s voice has disappeared, replaced with a pulsing panic, bright and searing like being too close to a star, Fell’s Force signature shining in alarm. 

Then, this close to the strength of his Force power, she’s hit with a flash of darkness. It crosses her vision in a second, a pulse of unblinking, yellow eyes and a terrifying hiss. _Where are you?_

Her mind recoils instinctively, another wave of nausea hitting her. She doubles over and retches, the last of their ration pack coming back up as she vomits. _Who are you?_ Her thoughts race. _What are you?_

Something coils tight around her throat and lungs, a squeezing pressure and a curious gaze. The voice hisses back. _Who are you?_ She shudders, spots dancing across her vision. Then she passes out.

Busa drags her back to their meeting location, sweaty from exertion. He looks around, panic rising higher in his throat when he can’t find their belongings or the Jedi master. He sets Mari against the wall and wipes the hair from her face. “Mari? Come on. You gotta wake up. Fell’s missing.”

“Nonsense,” a voice says, a hand reaching from thin hair to grip his shoulder.

Busa rips around and screams. He throws a punch, blocked easily by the shape manifesting in front of him through a shimmering veil. He catches his breath. “Mr Fell? Where’d you come from?”

He looks calm, Busa thinks, but there’s an air around him, an intensity he can feel that burns like hot fire. “I created a Force shield where you couldn’t see me. What took you so long to get back?”

When Busa points to his unconscious friend, Fell kneels before her limp body and touches her forehead, then her chin. He closes his eyes and passes a hand over her face. She gasps and lurches awake. 

“Fell!”

“Are you all right?”

She looks at him for a moment, terrified, eyes wide and panicked. “I saw him, Master Fell. I saw the Serpent.”

“What do you mean?” He looks composed, but there’s an underlying current of surprise and concern. His fingers tense around his knee where he squats beside her, the only sign of alarm he lets anyone see. Still, she can feel a pulse of worry coming off of him.

“I saw scales and his eyes. They were huge and… and... I heard his voice! He spoke to me.” 

He inhales a sharp breath, and then remembering himself, he lets it out slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, mouth going thin at the corners. “What did he say?”

Maricade sits there for a long moment as though digging through her memory, a shudder passing over her. “He didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before. He didn’t sound human at all.” 

Fell nods. “Don’t forget, Mari, he’s not a human. Nor am I.” He says it gently, using her nickname, something he uses only on rare occasions. He squeezes her shoulder and tries to calm her, and she can feel him, a warm tolling bell to chase away the dark venom crawling through her. “What did he say?”

“He asked me who I was.”

“Did you tell him?”

She shakes her head. 

“Good.” He looks away for a moment, guilt chasing across his face. Then he nods to himself and stands. “Busa, stay with her and our belongings. He’s nearby, and I’m afraid he’s gotten to our pilot.”

“We should come with you!” Maricade protests, attempting to stand. She teeters before Busa catches her. She’s a head taller than him and almost knocks them both over. 

“No,” Fell says, staring at her for a long moment, almost grief-stricken. “It’s my fault he knows you now. It’s my fault Warlock was alone or that any of you are here. It’s…” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “This is my cross to bear.” He turns and leaves.

  
  


The cantina is a wreck, empty except for a lone patrol guard and the barkeep standing outside the entrance. Fell sprints to Warlock, propped up against the wall of the side with a bruise on his head and a smear of bacta gel. He kneels in front of him but can’t find an injury. Warlock’s eyes are listless, staring off into the distance. 

Fell waves down the nearest passerby, another officer setting up a barrier around the cantina. “What happened here?”

The man shivers and shakes his head. “Mad mess. They say it was the Serpent. This poor kid got the brunt of it, but everyone collapsed. One moment they were just all chatting and drinking. Then there was a huge snake in the middle of the room.”

“Where did he go?”

“Who, the Serpent?” The officer looks at him with wild eyes. “You can’t be thinking of going after him, can you?” 

Fell turns so he can face him squarely and opens the side of his robe, revealing his lightsaber. “This is the closest I’ve gotten to… catching him.” 

The man gives him a dirty look. “Wish you Jedi would keep civilians out of it.” 

Fell frowns and turns back to Warlock, rubbing a soothing hand on his shoulder. He concentrates for a moment before gathering the Force, letting it seep through his fingertips. Something eases in Warlock’s face and his eyes drift shut, relaxing. He’ll be all right. “Mind if I take a look inside?”

The officer shrugs and gestures towards the door. “Be my guest.”

The hydraulic door has been disabled and left open, and Fell’s first thought is how strange it looks. He’s stepped inside dozens of cantinas and taverns brimming full of life, laughter, sometimes violence, but never silence. There are chairs tipped over, glasses broken, a spill of something wet and green on the floor that he almost steps in. He closes his eyes and tries to glean any dark presence of the Force, but Crowley has done well to cover his tracks. 

Still, Fell can suss out where he’d sat, a barstool tipped over and a broken shot glass on the bartop. He’d left a winding trail in the dirty floor from his transformation, weaving like a sidewinder towards the back exit. 

_You’ve never been good at keeping your shape_ , he thinks, remembering all the times he’d gotten angry and lost control, a coiling slither of a scales and a wounded hiss. His serpent shape had been smaller then, but Fell can tell by the width of his trail that he’s grown bigger and more dangerous, giving into his darker emotions and impulses. The trail leads him out the back exit through the kitchen where he’d knocked over several glass containers and cut himself on it, a spill of blood and a loose scale stuck to the tip of a shard.

Fell hesitates. He rubs his fingertips together before reaching to gently loosen the scale. He balances it on his fingertip and brings it to his face, holding it against the light. It shimmers, iridescent and large, almost the width of his nail, almost warm to the touch if he didn’t know better that it was a figment of his imagination. Crowley had always been so cold. 

Then his vision tunnels and his throat constricts, the room going dark in the corners. He hears a low hiss in the back of his mind. _Assssiraphale…_

He jerks and drops the scale, heart racing. “You’re close,” he says to the room, blinking away the vision. “Wait for me.” 

  
  


"I don't like that he was in my head. How did he even do that?"

Aziraphale sighs and beckons her to come sit with him. They're tucked in the back corner of the abandoned shop front, Busa and Warlock asleep. She joins him on one of the cargo crates, using her jacket as a cushion. She's small enough to pull her feet up, bending her knees to use a chin rest. She wraps her arms around her shins and squeezes tight. 

He studies her for a long moment before shucking his robe, He leans over and wraps it around her shoulders. "It's because of me." His voice is quiet, a whisper as he folds his hands in his lap. She’s never seen him so contrite before. 

“I don’t understand.”

He pauses for a moment, turning the words over in his mind before he says them. Finally, he lets out a soft breath, almost like an admittance of defeat. Their hideout is teeming with noise, a low and living hum as the rats scurrying by and the boys sleep. Somebody on the street gives a shout into the late night. It’s Maricade’s first night on another planet in four years, yet somehow it feels almost the same. 

“I am your master, your teacher. You are my student. Through the Force, we share a bond,” Fell explains. 

She blinks. “I didn’t know that.”

“That’s how I was able to reach you when Warlock was in trouble.”

Maricade thinks on that for a moment before shaking her head. She’s always been able to feel him close by, a sixth sense that smells like ozone and feels like staticky electric shocks. Sometimes the feeling is more prominent when he’s excited or angry. Busa doesn’t feel that way, nor has anyone else they’ve come across. “I could sense you, but I just thought it’s because you’re a Force user.”

He nods, smiling at her like she’s said something particularly bright. She smells that sudden sharp scent of ozone, sweet like smoked wood, though it feels stronger than before. Some surprise must show on her face because Fell says, “I’m allowing you to feel it more now. If you spend enough time around other Force-sensitive people, you’ll begin to recognize their own signatures, but you only have a bond with people you have close relationships with.” 

That explains why she can’t sense Busa the same way. He’s as force-capable as a Gungan traveling through the desert. “But why would the Serpent be able to find me through our bond?”

Master Fell frowns and blinks, looking away. His fingers fiddle with the hems of his draping sleeves. “That’s because Force bonds can act a bit like hyperlanes and highways. They’re roads that connect us together.” 

It’s a non-answer, and Maricade frowns. He studies her with a calm body, patient eyes and steady hands, but there’s a tension around his eyes that gives away his anxiety. “You also have a bond with the Serpent?”

The smile he gives her is grim. “You have always been good at reading between the lines,” he says.

“So he was a student of yours? Or were you a student of his?”

“Neither.” He shakes his head. “We were--ah--friends for a time. Before he fell to the Darkside. I am a bit unpracticed at shielding from him, my dear. It won’t happen again.” 

The air grows acrid and bitter, and it makes the corner of her eyes sting. She catches a shadow, something like grief in the dark circles under his eyes. 

As fast as it comes, it disappears again, and he claps his hands. “Nevermind that!” he says, full of energy. He’s not quite cheerful, more determined. “You’ll need to work on your meditation, build your strength with the Force. Ah ah--” He cuts off her groaning complaint. “If you want to protect yourself, it’s your best defense. Let’s get to it.”

He busies about their small hideout, light on his feet and careful not to disturb their sleeping friends. He makes do with an extra robe and a spare roll-up mattress to make makeshift pillows and then plops down on one. He pats it and beckons her to join him.

Maricade hates this part. She’s never any good at it. Still, Fell has a point about protecting herself from the Serpent. She’s heard the stories about other Jedi facing off with Sith apprentices. If she doesn’t have a good defense against him, she’ll stand no chance. Complying, she folds her legs in a criss-cross position and shakes out her shoulders, eyes closed.

His voice is quiet in the room but peaceful, a low lull. “Concentrate on your foremost emotion. Feel it.”

She shrugs her shoulders again drops her hands, willing herself to relax into her body. Then she feels it. Fear. Fear of being away from home, fear of the path they’ve begun on a hunt for a foreboding enemy, one who has already hurt someone from their small band. If something happened to Busa, she would never forgive herself. What was she thinking asking him to come?

“Now let it go.” Maricade struggles; the worry turns over in her head again. “Clear your mind. Your emotions cloud your thinking. Only the Force can guide you down the true path.”

Her breath slows, a low whoosh of air from her lungs. She sends the thought away, aware of the sudden change in the room, the smell of sweet-wood increasing, a shimmer of approval from her master.

“Good. Well done, Maricade. Reach for the next.”

Anger. Who was this Sith assassin anyway? What coward invades the minds of helpless people and makes them fall unconscious? Warlock had hit his head hard on the concrete, nothing a bit of bacta couldn’t cure, but if Master Fell hadn’t been nearby, then who knows what could have happened? Her fingers tighten around the loose fabric of her trousers, face flush and twisted. She doesn’t even _like_ Warlock, but he’s one of hers now.

“Let it go.” 

“But--”

She can hear him shake his head. “It’s no use dwelling on your anger. It gets you nowhere, clouds your judgment, turns your decisions rash and brazen. Our enemy has let his anger consume him. Remember that.”

Maricade nods and swallows, tamping down the hot, prickly feeling. 

“Don’t fight,” he reminds her. “Just let it go.” 

She shakes her shoulders loose and sends the emotion off, focusing on the clean slate of feeling calm. Before Fell can prompt her, she’s already reaching for the next prominent emotion, excitement. She’s off-planet on a real _Jedi_ mission with a real bonafide Jedi. Away from the hell hole, Igith, she has her best friend, and she’s being trained to wield the Force! But then she remembers herself and bites her lip. She feels a brush of amusement from Fell through their tentative bond. She relaxes and sinks deeper into her meditation. 

Something flickers behind her closed eyelids, a glimmer. Her brows come together, lips pursed as she tries to focus on it. She banishes the unbidden rise of curiosity that bubbles forth, and the picture clears, a vision of a tall protrusion from the ground, sandstone striped with bands of red, at least ten stories high. It pulses like a living thing, like it has its own signature. Lurching, she gasps and opens her eyes. “I’ve seen the Temple!” 

Fell looks at her, eyes bright and beaming. “Very good, Maricade. You’re growing stronger. We’ll make a capable Jedi of you yet.” 

  
  


The next morning, Fell wakes up the boys and spends a good fifteen minutes flustering over Warlock. He checks the yellowed-bruise on his forehead, the cut already healed, and sighs when the boy bats at his hands. “I’m fine!”

“All right,” he relents. Pushing two crates together with a wave of his hand, he throws down a projector and inserts the data chip. It whirs to life, beaming a map of Lothal and its surrounding areas. “Maricade has been able to locate the Jedi Temple for us.” He shoots her a warm, proud look, and she sits a little taller. “We’ve also gotten a good idea at what the--the--Darth Vivaris’s disguise looks like.” 

The day before, Warlock had described him as covered head-to-toe in all black, a pilot’s jumpsuit and headgear that covered his eyes. “Ah,” Fell had said and then pursed his lips together before gesturing for Warlock to continue. It wasn’t the best description, but the way he said it left an impression. 

“It was like looking into a black hole. He felt kind of off, but I just thought it was ‘cause I was a stranger in an unfamiliar cantina, but then he turned and looked at me and… Whoa. You’ll know,” he told them. “You’ll know when you see him.” 

“But remember, he’s a shapeshifter, and he’s clever and charismatic. Stay on your toes.”

Maricade bites her lip. There’s something about the way Fell talks about him sometimes as though he might admire the assassin. That they were friends once, he said. She still hasn’t figured out what that means.

Fell zooms in on three three-dimensional map, rotating the image so they’re parallel to the surface. The picture focuses on three tall peaks standing in the middle of a grassy knoll which look exactly as she saw them in her dream. The center tower is taller than the other two and made of striped rock. In front of it, there are two large circles carved deep into the earth, the size of a small spacecraft. She leans forward to get a better look. “What is that?”

“The key to the entrance,” Fell says. “We have to move quickly. Whatever the Sith assassin is after, we must get to it first. He knows we’re here now, so he’ll be on the lookout. The temple has some defenses against Dark powers which may buy us time, but it’s still not worth the risk to wait.”

Then he looks at the three of them, all children, really. Something must show on his face because all of them sit a little taller. He looks at Warlock, the oldest of them. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine enough, Mr Fell.” 

“While Maricade and I are searching the temple, I need you to acquire us transport.” He tosses him his credit chip and gives him a stern glare. “Use the resources as you need.” Then he adds, “I am trusting you.”

“What about me?” Busa asks. He folds his arms over his chest. He doesn’t like where this is going. Maricade going off to the temple without him? After what the Serpent did to Warlock? “I want to come with you.”

Fell sighs and looks skyward for a long moment, steadying his breath. He can read the stubbornness on his face. “And who will guard our lookout?”

The boy fidgets, a lock of his hair falling in front of his face as he scowls.

“Stay in town between here and the west exit towards the temple. You will be our eyes and ears. I need you to keep alert and radio us if anything suspicious happens so we can double back.” Fell leans over and pats him on the shoulder. Busa buckles under the weight of his large hand, but when he looks up, the Jedi’s eyes are warm and kind. “Whatever you do, don’t engage if you see the Sith assassin. Darth Vivaris is more powerful than I anticipated.” His eyes drift for a moment, lost in thought. Then he blinks and fixes his gaze back on Busa.

“I understand, sir,” the boy says, not without a huff. 

Fell nods. They have a lot to prepare before they head out in the evening. He hopes Maricade is strong enough to handle the temple. He hopes he himself is strong enough to face Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted them to be in the temple at Lothal by now. They were supposed to be there in Chapter Two! This whole thing is getting out of hand!
> 
> Notes and References:  
> 1\. You’ll hear Fell use a lot of English/Christian euphemisms. Bloody hell. Bugger. My cross to bear. To keep with his character, I’ve decided Englorans have their own religion which is basically like Christianity. Therefore, he has a lot of cultural slang he uses because of his species. First and foremost, Fell is a Jedi which is a religion in itself, but he will always have ties (for good or for ill) with his people. We’ll see more of that conflict between his Engloran half and his Jedi half develop as the story progresses. 
> 
> 2\. Warlock smears bacta on his face. It has healing properties which promote tissue regeneration. Darth Vader, who is scarred head to toe, would soak in bacta tanks during the early days of his recovery. Mind you, he lost all four limbs and was burned to a crisp, left for dead. Bacta will probably be referred to later on at various points. 
> 
> 3\. The Jedi philosophy is that there is no emotion, only peace. Sith are the opposite. They use their emotions to manipulate the Force and allow their anger to thrive. It makes them powerful but also unpredictable. This is why Fell worries that Crowley has shapeshifted twice now because it means he is more and more in touch with the Darkside. It’s also why Jedi release their emotions when meditating to clear their minds.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell and his padawan finally get to the temple but encounter an unexpected barrier.

The Jedi temple in Coruscant was an enormous pyramidal structure under a cloudy sky, stuffed in the middle of a bustling city. On the rare occasion he was allowed to visit Englora, Fell missed the chaos and the industrial smell of being home with the other Jedi. He missed the quietude of nighttime despite needing little sleep and more sun exposure than the average species. He missed surrounding himself in the smell of old tomes and whirring computers where he had all the galaxy’s knowledge at his fingertips.

“Fell! Fell!” 

He narrowed his eyes at that familiar voice and ducked around a corner, clutching his datapad closer to his chest. Every Centaxday, he had a free hour between training with Master Fenix and meditation, which was a perfect opportunity to stow away in the library. Jocasta Nu would be there with a new stack of readings on the Galactic Empire’s history, and he couldn’t wait.

He darted into an empty corridor and bit his lip as he heard footsteps rush past. A high, young voice whined, “Aw, Fell. Where’d you go?” He closed his eyes and waited, holding his breath, focusing on regulating his heartbeat and vascular system until his heartbeat slowed. He let out his breath and opened his eyes. 

“Ah!” he shouted, surprised. His datapad flung from his hands, crashing towards the stone floor before the other boy--who had appeared before him out of nowhere--stuck out his hand and slowed its descent. “Easy, Fell.” Then he grinned. “C’mon. Skeeve off with me. I want to go down to the lower city.”

“Argh.” He pushed the boy away and bent over to scoop up the datapad. “Crowley, we’re not _allowed_ in the lower city.”

“I’m not saying go down to the Underworld.” Then the kid paused and tilted his head. “That would be cool though. I just want to go down ten levels and see the new holovid showing at the Ra Se District Theater.” 

Fell shook his head at him and huffed, pushing past him to continue towards the library. Sometimes, the best way to deal with Crowley’s troublemaking was to ignore him entirely, nevermind that he did want to see the newest hologram, but they were Jedi. Skirting duties just wasn’t proper.

Footsteps shuffled after him, and he could imagine the determined look on his roommate’s face. They’d been housed together in the same unit ever since Crowley had shown up as a toddler, before Fell had learned that Engloran should be suspicious of all Demagans. That was another reason he didn’t like going home, politics. Crowley wasn’t the enemy. He was just a nuisance. 

Something grabbed his arm, and he twisted away with ease, snatching the other boy’s wrist in a tight grip. 

“Aziraphale, please.”

That got his attention. Nobody used his holy name which was reserved only for family and bondmates. It was one of the few things Englora and Demagan society shared in common. It was just like Crowley to skirt around social niceties just to get what he wanted, always relying on the shock factor when he didn’t get his way outright. 

Aziraphale spun on his heel so fast Crowley almost ran into him. Straightening up, he glared over his nose. He was two years older and had the height advantage, and he mustered his sternest scowl. Master Fenix would be proud.

Crowley rolled his eyes, impervious. He’d been at the receiving end of one too many frowns to be daunted. “Please? Your readings can wait. They’ll be there tomorrow and the next day, and I’ll meditate with you later.” 

“Master Yoda will be very disappointed--”

“You’re not a youngling anymore, Fell! Don’t you want to see what’s out there beyond the temple?”

Fell pursed his lips together and shifted his weight. There’d been rumors, of course, that some sort of conflict between the Galactic Republic and the Confederacy was brewing. The padawans had attended more and more combat training over the past year as all their other studies fell to the wayside, and his hand had calloused over from gripping the hilt of his lightsaber. Despite all that, they still didn’t know what was going on in the outside world, and he’d longed to explore the other levels of Coruscant.

It was moments like these Fell would later look back on and wish he had taken advantage of. He would wish he had said yes more often, followed his wayward friend through the bowels beneath the temple. The Jedi in him would have protected the Demagan and prevented him from getting into trouble. The other part of him would savor that sly grin, those gleaming yellow eyes and sharp smile. But at his very tender age of twelve, the word of his masters was law. 

“Come with me to the library. You’d do well to pick up a book every now and again,” he said instead. 

Crowley crossed his arms. His hair had grown down around his face, and he was desperately due for a haircut. “You’re lucky we’re friends,” he said. “I don’t even know why I like you. You’re boring.” 

“At least I’m not a miscreant.”

“Miscreant? At least I talk like a normal person. You want to grow up to be a librarian of all things.” Then Crowley thumped his chest. “I’m going to be a guardian.” He mimicked holding a lightsaber and added a series of _zzzshhhmm!_ sound effects as he stumbled through his footwork. 

Fell rolled his eyes. “Not like that, dummy.”. He pulled out his real lightsaber. He’d just spent the last six months crafting it under the tutelage of his master, and Crowley envied it every time he saw it. He tossed it to the younger boy. “Don’t turn it on. You’re switching your feet around when you’re in second position.” 

Crowley frowned and shifted his feet. Holding a real weapon added weight, balancing out his body. Every time he picked up Fell’s saber, he said it almost sang to him, a warm buzz in his hands even without activating it. He repeated the steps, shifting his wrists into the various blocking positions while adding combat noises. 

Then the library door opened and a head poked out. “Oi, what are you doing?” Master Fenix shouted. He was an anx with a tall, angular forehead and bony protrusions on his chin, his scaly skin the same color as the desert. “Fell, what did I say about holding on to your blasted lightsaber?”

Both boys stilled before Crowley shoved the weapon back in Fell’s hands. “Sorry, Master,” they said in unison.

“You’ll lose your own head, next,” Fenix said. “And you’re late for meditation.”

Fell shot Crowley a look. _See?_ he mouthed. His Force signature had gone hot and prickly with embarrassment. “Yes, Master. So sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Fenix snorted and stepped out into the hall, propping open the door of the library. “Come along, then. I shouldn’t have to be running through the temple looking for my own padawan. And you, young Crowley, should take your studies more seriously, lest you be a youngling forever.” 

Fell winced and looked back at his friend. “Oooh,” he said under his breath. “Ouch.”

Crowley kicked him in the shin. “Shut up,” he hissed, his voice gone sibilant, tongue thick in his mouth with embarrassment. “Go on, _padawan_. I’ll see you at dinner.” 

  
  


“Christ,” Fell says as his hood whips down in the wind. He blocks a gust with his hand outstretched, a little bubble forming around him and Maricade which pushes the offending storm away. He’s always saying odd things like “Lord have mercy,” when he’s feeling put upon, or “Well, isn’t that the luck of the devil?” when something good comes their way. Then he catches himself and shakes his head. “I mean, the Force works in mysterious ways to guide us.” 

The meadow around them billows, the tall grasses bent in half from the force of the wind. The weather is unusual for this time of year. Lothal has endlessly long autumns that linger, dusky and chilled before dipping into brief winters, the sky dappled purple. They clamber over the ridge and stop to breathe, and Maricade claps her hands and points ahead. “Look! The temple!”

Fell turns and watches her, forgetting himself for a moment. She is unaccountably young sometimes, still the same child who had tucked herself away on a freighter to escape the labor in Corellia and not the person who had hardened on the streets of Igith. She turns to look at him, beaming.

“It’s just as I pictured it. I _saw_ this!” 

“I do believe it is your greatest gift, foresight. Most Jedi can look into the future to some degree, but you have always been more astute. Well done.” Then he sighs and shifts his belt, his lightsaber thudding against his thigh. He points at the front of the temple where the two deep circles are carved into the earth. “That’s the key.”

“How is it supposed to work?” 

“The temple will tell us if we listen.”

Maricade gives him a wary look. “Does that mean more meditation?” 

“Does that mean you actually have to listen to my teachings for once?” he responds. He raises an eyebrow at her and tilts his head before stepping down the long slope to the temple.

Behind him, she rolls her eyes and pulls a face, mimicking his haughtiness. Then she wraps her robe tighter to combat the wind before tumbling down after him.

The closer they get to their destination, the dryer the land becomes until it crunches beneath their feet, littered with withered plant life and debris. Up close, the key looks like a jagged scar in the earth at least six inches deep. When she bends down and runs her fingers over the grooves, she jolts back, surprised by the shock of electricity that surges through her. 

“It feels alive,” she says in awe.

Fell steps over the lines of the circle with care, standing in the center. He folds his arms in his sleeves and turns in a slow circle, examining the carvings. After a long moment, he points to the first smaller circle. “I see. Two Jedi must be present to open the door, hence the two circles.” He then gestures at the line connecting them. “It will open for two who are bonded.” 

Maricade hops over the line and joins him in the first, smaller circle. “Lucky for us,” she says, “that we share a bond.” 

He looks at her, frowning, before nodding his head. “Right, yes. Let’s give it a shot. You stand here, and I’ll move to the larger one. Concentrate on the Force.”

She closes her eyes. Her connection here feels stronger, staticky and thick, a conduit straight to her master. She focuses on that sensation and chases the smell of ozone and woodsmoke until it starts to take shape behind her eyes. In the past, she’s only been able to describe her master’s signature in terms of smell, like a form of synesthesia, but for the first time it begins to take shape, a tremulous, thin golden line reaching back for her. 

Extending her hand, she reaches for it, stretching beyond her own body. But just as she brushes against it, a shock rushes through her, and the golden rope whips back. Her vision goes dark, and she hits the earth with a heavy thud, a plume of dry dirt billowing around her.

“Maricade, are you all right?” Fell appears before her, shaking her shoulder.

She opens her eyes and rubs her back where she fell. It stings where it collided with the hard earth. “Yeah, fine. What happened?”

Fell closes his eyes and turns away from her for a moment before looking back, an air of disappointment looming around him. “I fear that perhaps our bond isn’t strong enough.”

“Oh,” she says, voice quiet, her master’s words heavy like a punch. “You mean I’m not strong enough?” He has always been getting on her about meditating more, treating her studies with seriousness. 

Then, he reaches and squeezes her shoulder. “No, I’m afraid it’s me. I--” Fell drifts off, caught on a breath. He steels his face and shakes his head. “It’s been difficult for me to form bonds with other Jedi.”

Maricade frowns. She knows she’s different from other padawans. Most Jedi, Fell had told her, started training when they were almost still infants, whisked away from their homes by the Order to be taught the ways of the Force. He mentioned here and there about their classes as younglings and loved to describe the library in great detail, all of his curiosity satiated by the endless amounts of knowledge kept in a single room. She knows her education has been unique, more practical than theoretical. For one, he’s allowed her to keep her friends. “How common are Jedi bonds?”

“Very, to some degree. Every padawan and master forms a bond. You develop connections to others you are close to, teachers and students. In some rare instances, bonds are… stronger.” He hesitates here, his thoughts drifting inwards before he physically shakes himself out. Maricade can almost see him release his emotions, at once returning to a calm facade. “It’s what makes Jedi so powerful. When we unite, we become far greater than our individual parts.” 

“I don’t understand,” she says. “This can’t be the only way to get in. What if… what if someone was by themselves, and they wanted to enter?”

For a moment, Fell goes somewhere else, thinking back to the temple on Coruscant bustling with people, filled to the brim with Jedi from younglings to the Council. “I imagine, once long ago, this place was full of Jedi during the Old Republic, and the doors were always open. This key is more like a defense mechanism now that it’s left unguarded.”

Maricade takes that in. Where did the Jedi go? Fell has only mentioned the temple on Coruscant which works closely with the Galactic Senate. Every time he mentions it, he tuts, disapproving of the Council’s close relationship with politicians. 

“If we can’t open the temple, then what?”

Fell reaches out a hand and pulls her up. “Then we find another way in. On the plus side, if we can’t get in, then the dark assassin most likely won’t be able to either. We should split up and scope the perimeter.” 

Maricade nods and brushes her robe off. After a breath and a sigh, she steps out of the circle and begins to make her way to the left of the temple.

“And Maricade,” Fell calls out to her. He looks at her, and she can feel the weight of his gaze even with the twenty feet between them. “I meant it when I said this is my fault. However tenable our bond may be, it has already put you in danger, in the path of our… enemy. For that, I am sorry.” Then he turns and walks away.

  
  


The dirt crunches beneath her feet, a loud counterpoint to the otherwise quiet air around Maricade as she makes her way around the tall buttes. The wind around the temple is significantly calmer, the air still and stale. The whole place feels untouched and empty as though all life was abandoned when the Jedi discarded the temple

“I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she mutters to herself, kicking at a loose rock in her path. The temple looks just like the other tall geographic features. There’s nothing to write home about, no hidden doors or strange symbols, just the face of a rock worn smooth by erosion in the middle of a field. And it’s clear Master Fell isn’t telling her something. What is this place? Why are they here? And what’s so important about the kriffing Holocrons anyway?

“Looking for something?” a voice says behind her, interrupting her thoughts.

She jumps and turns around, one hand reaching for her lightsaber on reflex. The man behind her puts up his hands in contrition. “Who are you?” she asks.

“Whoa, lassie. I’m not here to quarrel with you.” 

Maricade looks him up and down and then examines their surroundings taking care not to turn her back on the stranger. Fell must be out of sight on the other side of the abandoned temple. She looks back at the man wearing a large-brimmed hat and a pair of speeder goggles. He has a large red greatcoat with navy pauldrons with a sniper rifle strapped to his back. Her eyes drift downwards as he pushes open his jacket with a careful hand to reveal a repeating blaster and a disengaged electrostaff holstered in his belt. “They’re not for you,” he tells her. Then he drops the coat and it flutters shut.

The sight of so many weapons leaves her uneasy, and she draws her lightsaber. It comes to life with a low hum. The short blade casts a blue light around her in what she hopes looks threatening. 

The man stops for a second, a look of surprise ghosting across his face when he sees the lightsaber. “Huh,” he says, mostly to himself. 

“Who are you?” she repeats, firmer. She widens her stance, remembering her footwork just as Fell taught her.

Shaking his head, he comes back to himself. “Maybe we can help each other out.” He telegraphs each movement, laying a hand on his chest. “I am a bounty hunter looking for a Sith assassin, and you are a Jedi. I believe we may have something in common.” 

She lowers her lightsaber just a fraction but keeps it poised and ready to strike, mentally running through her drills in her head. “You’re looking for the Serpent?”

“Indeed. Maybe we can work together. Come to some kind of… accord.” He gestures between the two of them and gives her a little closed-mouth grin. “After all, two working together is stronger than one alone.” 

It sounds eerily similar to what Master Fell had said earlier, that Jedis united were stronger than their individual parts. Perhaps it’s a sign from the Force that she’s run into the bounty hunter. If they can’t reach the Holocron inside, then at least they can stop the Serpent from getting it himself. She disengages her lightsaber and turns it off.

“What’s your name, little one?” 

Her throat clicks as she swallows. “You first.” 

He smiles. It’s wide and sharp and a little predatory. She’s met enough washed-up bounty hunters in Igith to recognize that same sliminess, the kind that oozes from a man willing to kill someone else for a few credits. His voice is smooth and almost venerable when he speaks to her. “My name,” he says with a little bow, “is Crowley. And you are, miss?”

“Maricade.” She feels something pull at her and opens her mouth again. “Maricade of… Corellia.” 

His grin turns feral and sharp. “I’m so, so glad to finally meet you, Maricade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References:  
> 1\. Aziraphale mentions it’s “Centaxday” in the flashback at the temple which is the first day of the week. Most civilizations follow the Galactic Standard Calendar (aka. Coruscant Standard) which follows closely to our own except that there are five days in a week, 35 days in a month, and 388 days in a year. Different planets have different calendars but everything is then related back to the GSC. 
> 
> 2\. Coruscant is a large city that is built on thousands of layers. The temple and Senate are on top. The lower you go, the seedier it gets. Crowley mentions the Underworld which is an unregulated place full of illegal activity. Mostly, the padawans are not allowed to venture too far away from the temple.
> 
> 3\. In the flashback, Crowley is a youngling still and Fell is a padawan. The levels of training are youngling, padawan, knight, and master. 
> 
> 4\. Hurr hurr. Crowley’s outfit is ridiculous because I have fashioned his bounty hunter outfit after [Hondo Ohnaka](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Hondo_Ohnaka). He’s in disguise, and it would be terrible if it wasn’t so effective! Granted, so far he has tricked two teenagers so… it’s not the best track record! Hondo is one of my favorite characters. He follows his own moral code, does dealings with both sides of the war, and really only thinks about himself. This often gets him stuck in unexpected situations.
> 
> 5\. This is a [blaster](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Blaster/Legends), and these are various [electrostaffs](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Electrostaff). Yes, Crowley will have the coolest weapons in this, and I am saving the best for last. (Yes, I am a nerd.) 
> 
> 6\. Maricade uses a short lightsaber called a [shoto](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Lightsaber_shoto), mainly because I imagine her to be quite small. Short blades are often used in the off-hand during two-handed combat and also by Yoda because, yanno, he’s itty bitty. We’ll find out more about the origins of her saber later!  
> Look, I just want to talk about Star Wars. Each chapter, my notes get longer and longer. Soon they’ll be longer than the chapters. :: sigh ::
> 
> Edit: I just updated the links. Please let me know if the links are broken. Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell finally meets the Serpent face-to-face.
> 
> Heed the tags. There's some minor violence in this chapter.

“Think about this. You are sent on a mission to support a fledgling planet in the Republic. They have an abundance of resources but no way of mining them. You have the knowledge and crew to help them establish so they can economically support themselves in competition with the rest of the Republic.” Master Fenix flicked a hand at the simulator, zooming in on a small planet. “Where would you set up your enterprise?”

Fell, at age thirteen, had finally begun to grow into his robes. His single padawan braid fell past his shoulder, and he twisted it as he examined the map. “Well, there’s a city here near the river. You could build a dam to harvest electricity.”

“Ah,” Fenix said, tutting. “If you built a dam, it would disrupt the natural habitat for their fishing, the main source of food for the indigenous population.” He had a slow, gravelly voice and a way of speaking, methodical and precise. 

“The mountains could be mined. A forge could be built in the woods.” 

“And again, you would destroy acres of forest. How do you weigh life? Do sentients deserve to be spared over non-sentient beings? How do you measure conscience in the first place?” 

Fell opened his mouth and closed it again, burying his head in his hand. He could feel his agitation mounting and reminded himself to breathe, letting out his frustration. He wanted to perform well for his master, but anxiety churned his stomach. He hated these sorts of tests. “We could ship in resources from other more fortunate civilizations?” 

Fenix leaned back in his chair and crossed his long, spindly arms across his chest. His chin protrusions flapped in consideration. “Hmm. So we should strain the resources of other planets instead?”

“What? No, that’s not—” Groaning, Fell threw his datapad on the table. “If this new planet wants to benefit from the Republic, it’s only fair that they contribute some way. But I don’t know what would be right. They should decide!” 

His master looked at him and nodded. Anxs could not smile, but this one had a way of narrowing his eyes in approval. The air around him crackled. “As it should be, Fell. It’s never a Jedi’s job to interfere. We facilitate peace, but we must always allow those seeking help from us to decide what that looks like.” Then he stood up and gestured for him to follow. “Let’s take a walk.” 

Like his voice, Master Fenix had a slow and ambling stride that led them from the ground level of the library to the highest balconies of the temple on Coruscant. On the tallest platform, the city looked brighter, the sunbeams closer as they filtered through the clouds, and that instinctual Engloran part of Fell closed his eyes and leaned towards the sun. Fenix watched him with a curious look. “You know, I was cautious when you were brought to the temple, and I hesitated to accept you as my padawan.” 

Fell opened his eyes, surprised. He didn’t know that. In fact, his master had been stern but welcoming, someone whom he looked up to and admired. “Was I… not good enough?” He ran through all of his memories as a youngling. Though he never was at the top of his class, he felt he was at least average and had the best mind for theory over all the others. He certainly wasn’t the _loudest_ in the group, he thought as his mind drifted towards Crowley. 

“You were excellent. It was unexpected.” The Jedi master opened his claws and gestured for his student to look down at the city. “This city is full of hundreds of different peoples, teeming with life. But you are special. You’re most likely the only Engloran in Coruscant and the first to become a Jedi in maybe a thousand years. Did you know that?” Fell shook his head. “The Council has always been wary of accepting your kind, though your people all have a connection to the Force.”

“Oh?” Fell asked. Most of the younglings and padawans were like him, brought to the temple as infants due to their extraordinary gifts. They were not raised as human or Togruta or Engloran. They were trained as Jedi. He never gave much thought to where he came from. 

“The way Engorans use and harness the Force goes against the principles of the Jedi Order.”

Fell had not been home since he was two and couldn’t remember much of his time on his home planet. Sometimes, he would catch a scent--the smell of perfume and cotton drying in the sun--that flooded him with a sense of longing and nostalgia. “I don’t know much about my home.”

“Nor do we,” Fenix said. “One day, you will have to return home to learn the ways of your people. What an unusual thing for a Jedi. All I know is what the Council feared, that Englorans’ emotions are tied directly to their connection with the Force. They are a very private and closed-off community. Most of your people’s capacity to manipulate the Force is for forming bonds with families and mates. Still, it’s that emotional connection that prevents them from fully living as a Jedi.”

Fell didn’t think he was overly _emotional_ , not like some people he knew. Living a life without emotion and attachment had not been easy, but he’d passed his levels and became a padawan. Surely, that counted for something. His eyes narrowed. “Why did I come here then?”

Master Fenix nodded. “Ah, I wondered when you’d ask that. Your mother asked us to take you. You had abilities that far outranked the rest of your peers, but like them, your use of the Force was driven by emotion.”

“I didn’t know.” He thought hard about his childhood. The first year or two at the temple felt like a blur. “What… did I do?”

This earned him a chuckle. It was hearty and bright and full of fondness. “Nothing that a few old masters couldn’t handle. You tended to blow out the lights whenever you were upset. I remember there was a good week where we had no generator because you wanted an eeopie sweet pie.” 

“Oh, oh goodness.” Fell flushed red. 

“Yes, you have always enjoyed your sweets.” Fenix clapped him on the back. “Things got better once you had a friend.” Then his eyes narrowed, and his face grew stern. He gently nudged the boy until they stood face-to-face. “Fell, you must be careful about your friend, Crowley.”

“Why?”

“Demagans and Englorans are more alike than either of your peoples want to believe. The only thing that separates your kind is a civil war several thousand years ago, and like you, his ties to the Force are rooted instinctually in his emotions. He needs your guidance.” 

Fell swallowed, thinking about his bunkmate. Crowley was off somewhere with his own master after finally achieving the rank of padawan. He’d woken up blurry-eyed this morning after spending the night tucked in his bunk, using his old training saber as a flashlight to watch the latest holovid he’d pilfered from the Ra Se market, and every so often, he’d tipped his head over the top bunk to shake Fell awake, waving the holoprojector in his face. Fell shook his head. “Crowley means well, sir.” 

Fenix nodded and smiled. “Yes, there’s no doubt about that, but he is also easily the most strong-willed in your class.” Then he rubbed his claws together and gestured back towards the door. “Enough of that. I do believe you had an appointment with Master Jocasta Nu?”

Fell’s face lit up. She would be showing him how to help organize the archives. He’d requested to be assigned to her for his daily chores, and he would be starting today. “Yes!” he whooped as he ran out the door. Then he skidded to a stop and turned around, poking his head out onto the balcony. “Master Fenix?”

“My dear boy, what is it?” 

“Crowley is my friend. I’ll do as you ask.” 

The anx could not smile, though his Force signature turned warm and sweet like summer blossoms. “I trust you to do your best. When Jedi stand together, we are stronger for it.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
  


_Fwhumph!_

“Master Fell! What are you doing?” Maricade shouts, wincing as her master grabs the bounty hunter by the collar of his jacket and rears back with his fist. The man already sports a purpling bruise on his cheek from the first punch. 

“How dare you show up here?” he says. She’s never heard that snarl in his voice before and coils back, afraid to get between the two men. 

This time the bounty hunter blocks the next punch with his forearm and twists out of the Jedi’s grip before shouldering him into the ground. He laughs, a mocking sneer as he tries to pin Fell. He grunts when he takes a knee to the stomach. 

Does she jump in? Who does she grab? She reaches for her lightsaber. “Stop! The bounty hunter is here to help us!”

Fell’s eyes narrow, and he uses his heavier weight to flip them over, grabbing the other man’s throat in his fist while pinning him in place. His face is red, breath heavy and ragged. “Oh, you want to help?” He tightens his grip, compressing the man’s trachea. 

The bounty hunter struggles for a moment, beating his gloved fists against Fell’s chest. Then he lets out a weak hiss. “Careful, Fell, of your emotions.” He drawls the _sss_ on the final word, and Fell’s eyes widen as he releases and staggers off of him. The man gasps and struggles to sit upright, gulping for air. Through it, he grins. “Oh, Aziraphale, you haven’t changed one bit.” 

Maricade’s master stumbles back until they’re a good ten feet apart, widening his stance with his fists ready like he might lunge at him again at any moment. She’s never seen him so wild and out of control before. He snaps. “Get my name out of your mouth. And stay away from my padawan!” 

The bounty hunter reaches for his belt and pulls out what she thought was the handle to his electrostaff. However, out in the open, she sees it’s a single hilt with a blade emitter on top and a power cell attached to the bottom. Minus the thick, black leather wrappings around the grip, it looks almost identical to her own lightsaber. She gasps. “Master, watch out!” 

She turns to look at Fell, who is one step ahead of her, his own weapon in hand and his thumb resting on the activation lever. She’s never seen him in actual combat with it. When she started training with him, he’d given her the short blade and ran drills with her using his own, every movement controlled and precise. Otherwise, he’s left it attached to his belt. At this moment, it rests in the meat of his hand, poised. 

The two men standoff, both blades drawn but not activated, the bounty hunter at a disadvantage lying sprawled on the ground. Not the bounty hunter, she realizes, pulse high in her throat, _the Serpent_ who doesn’t look afraid at all. 

“I have something you want,” he says, punctuating each word. 

Something passes between the two. Fell’s face shifts, and the Sith assassin’s eyes narrow. Maricade feels the air shift, prickly and hot. She smells wood smoke and sage and the unfamiliar smell of dew and petrichor, which stand out on the dry, scorched earth near Lothal’s temple. 

“What could you possibly have that I would want?” 

The Serpent’s smile turns sly, and he makes a show of holstering his lightsaber. “I can grant you something you’ve wanted for a long time. But I can’t do it alone.” He gestures to the temple and then the deep circles carved into the earth with big sweeping gestures. 

Fell keeps his weapon at the ready and shifts his weight, his face darkening. “I’m not opening the temple for you.”

“Ah ah ah, not for me. _With_ me.” Then the Serpent does the unexpected, reaching into his coat pocket before revealing a small pyramidal object, dark in color. 

Maricade gasps. “A Holocron!”

The Serpent shoots her an appraising look before pushing himself up and dusting himself off. “Not as dumb as she looks.”

Slowly, Fell lowers his lightsaber, realizing he’s stuck. The Serpent has his attention. “I want nothing to do with a Sith artifact,” he says, despite the interest in his voice.

“What? Not even to bring it home like some shiny prize back to Coruscant?” The assassin tilts his head, and his voice turns mocking and bitter. “You’re not still begging for approval from the Council, are you?” In falsetto, he says, “Oh Master Fenix! Please!” 

Fell turns to stone, a storm brewing under his skin, the air charging with electricity, but his voice comes out smooth and even when he speaks. “Master Fenix is dead.” 

A glimmer of surprise passes over the Sith’s face before he pouts. “How traumatic for you, I’m sure. Maybe you should have thought that before abandoning the Jedi.” 

Fell erupts, face purpling. He shouts, “It was never my intention when I--when…” He trails off, words stuck in his throat.

“Oh ho! You can’t even say it, can you? You mean, when you left the Jedi Order?” the Serpent says, sneering. “When you were weak? When you fell out of grace with the Council?”

Silence descends heavy and thick. Fell swallows, a flush high across his face and throat. “I came back,” he says, voice low and almost inaudible in the distance between them. He clenches his shaking hands. “I came back. Crowley.”

The Serpent shakes his head, and the air changes once again, bright and brittle around them. He turns his focus on Maricade, feigning aloofness despite the sudden tightness in the grim line of his mouth. “Do you know how bonds work between a Sith master and an apprentice?” She shakes her head. Fell stands still and says nothing, his hands opening and closing in a fist. “It’s a violent bond. An apprentice only becomes a master when they are strong enough to kill their own in combat. It’s a horrible thing to be attached to somebody who could turn and kill you at any moment. The apprentice is always searching for any sign of weakness; the master is always at the ready, weighing the student’s strength against their own, calculating the right time to strike their apprentice down and find another.” He tosses the Holocron in the air with a flick of his wrist, passing it between his two hands. “But the Ancient Sith were developing a way to force bonds between master and apprentice so they shared a life source, making the student beholden to their master.”

Maricade shudders. “That sounds awful.” 

“It sounds like slavery. But what does this have to do with anything?” Fell asks, finding his voice again.

“Think about it. If they can force bonds, then it can be reverse-engineered.”

The Jedi opens his mouth and then closes it, eyes going wide. “Oh. _Oh_.” The Serpent watches, waiting for him to complete the thought, for it to click. “If we could reverse the process, then we could… sever bonds as well.” 

The Serpent steps forward and holds out the Holocron as a peace offering. “We can work together, Fell. We can free ourselves. What do you say?”

“Why should I trust you?” 

Fell stiffens when he approaches, circling him. He tilts his head, this way and that way as if sizing up his prey. Through it, Fell holds fast and doesn’t flinch. When the Serpent returns to face him, he leans forward, hands behind his back, and whispers in Fell’s ear.

Maricade’s master hesitates, eyes shuttering. He swallows and nods, reaching out a tentative hand to close it over the Serpent’s, encasing the Holocron between them. Behind them on the ground, the deep outline of the key lights up, a searing fiery color. He leans in and responds, voice low and inaudible. 

Something unreadable passes between them, a flicker of surprise and a sensation of static. Out loud, Fell says, “I agree to assist you,” and turns to approach the lit-up circle. The Serpent’s mouth parts in surprise, all of his anger and sneering demeanor seeping away. In that moment, Maricade can’t help but think he looks almost young and hopeful.

She just hopes her master knows what he’s doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References:  
> 1\. Here is an awesome resource someone created on tumblr that shows the [anatomy of a lightsaber](https://writebetterstarwars.tumblr.com/post/163216269985/anatomy-of-a-light-saber-top-image-bottom-image). Every saber is unique, but they all require the same basic parts. The shape of the hilt and length of the blade are designed to complement each owner’s style of combat. I spent many, many hours in Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order customizing my blade and switching out different kyber crystals.
> 
> Crystals are what change the color of the blade. The basic colors are blue, yellow, and green to represent guardians, sentinels, and consulars. Red crystals are corrupted and dominated by Sith users, which is why they turn red. They can be purified again. This is how Ahsoka gets white sabers. I have to fact-check, but I think she defeats a Sith lord and heals the crystals. Other colors are present (like Mace Windu’s purple saber or the [crazy color combinations in Star Wars: The Old Republic RPG](https://swtorista.com/crystals). Can you tell I really like lightsabers???
> 
> This all to say that the very specific individualism of lightsabers will be an important detail in the story which has already been alluded to. 
> 
> 2\. All the lore about Englorans is original and unrelated to the Star Wars verse. More will be revealed in the upcoming chapters!
> 
> 3\. These are [Anx like Master Fenix](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Anx).
> 
> Just a heads up, the next chapters are written and will be posted weekly or twice-weekly depending on how much I am able to get done. The SO and I have come down with COVID possibly despite all of our best efforts to stay safe. We are doing okay! But are very very tired.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell and Crowley use their bond to open the temple.

The key to the temple hums, coming to life the closer the Fell and Crowley approach. They both stop just on its edge, and Fell looks at the Sith from the corner of his eye. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Crowley adjusts his jacket, checking over his weapons, first the sniper rifle, then the blaster at his hip, before settling a palm on his lightsaber. “When have I ever led you astray?” Fell stills. “You, on the other hand…” 

Fell turns his upper body and glares, keeping his feet planted in the earth. It’s a struggle to control his breathing, but he won’t be baited. Whoever this man may have been before, he’s proven himself to be a trickster, a fiend, an assassin working for the enemy. “I don’t care about any of this except getting the artifacts. We’ll separate our bond, and you will give me the Holocrons as promised.” He sucks in a sharp breath and steps into the ring. He feels the tell-tale crackle of Force energy, but for the most part, it feels just as latent as it had when they first tried opening the temple when it was just him and Maricade.

Crowley tilts his head from one side to another, cracking his neck. The snapping follows down his vertebrae, a sinuous display. “And what then? We go our separate ways?” 

“I’ll give you a head start before I bring you in to be tried by the Galactic Republic.” 

“Charming. Not very Jedi-like of you to put your own needs first before the Republic.” He sniffs, hesitating for a moment before stepping into the same shared circle, gasping the second both feet are inside. “Hah. Christ, that burns.”

Crowley’s presence in the ring is a sudden, piercing intrusion. Fell doubles over and clutches at his side the moment the other joins him, groaning as a fiery spike shoots through him. He breathes through it, remembering his meditations. When the searing pain subsides, he blinks back tears and takes stock of himself and his surroundings. 

The world is suddenly sharper and more saturated. Beyond the ring, Maricade looks back at him, the tight curls of her hair yellow instead of ashy, the browns of her robe rich instead of muted. Fell can hear the low hiss Crowley makes with every exhale, something he’d known once but had forgotten. Then he feels something prick at the back of his neck, overcome by the smell of salt and rainfall, the Demagan’s Force signature an overwhelming pressure in the shared space of the circle. It’s the sensation of a bite, cloying anxiety scaling from his gut to his larynx—Crowley’s fear.

Fell shivers. If the circle allows them to feel the other’s emotions, then what can Crowley read of him? He turns to look, but the Sith’s face remains smoothed-over, passive. “Let’s get on with it,” the Demagan says, even-keeled and voice level.

From the outside of the circle, Maricade watches her master close his eyes. He has a ritual before meditating, and she wonders if he even knows he does it. He starts by shaking out his shoulders and rolling his head, letting out a slow breath. Then he reaches up with his hand and gestures towards the temple, brow knitted in concentration. In direct contradiction, the Sith assassin stands still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. She can’t see his eyes, if they’re open or closed because of the visor, but he mimics Master Fell, reaching towards the temple with his opposite hand. 

Fell clamps his teeth together as a surge of power rushes through him. In his mind’s eye, he can see his connection to the Force, a golden twine reaching towards the temple. In the corner beside him, something iridescent flickers forward like a whip striking at the air. What once was red, a shimmery ribbon that glimmered like a drop of blood, has since turned dark and insidious. Crowley’s Force signature lashes out at nothing. The temple remains stubbornly closed. 

He opens his eyes, jarring them both out of their meditation. Beside him, the Demagan snarls. Fell ignores him and flexes his fingers and shoulders, loosening some of the tension in his neck. He feels the tight and tingling beginnings of a headache brewing at the base of his skull. “We need to work together.”

That’s the crux of it, the joke. Here they are trying to separate themselves, but first, they have to reach out together to open the temple, or else the key will never accept them. They’d only ever entwined their signatures once when Crowley still felt familiar instead of crawling and abrasive. Whatever tenuous bond they still have may be too scarred and damaged.

Crowley says nothing, thinking the same thoughts. He pauses for a moment before taking off his glasses and pocketing them. He doesn’t look happy, but he’s not outright defiant. His lips press together in a thin flat line.

Fell’s breath catches, surprised. He isn’t sure what he expected to be under those dark glasses. He’s heard stories, of course, of those who fall to the Darkside, eyes that turn golden or blood red or black as obsidian. Crowley, with his Demagan features, looks as he ever did. The dark slits of his pupils split his yellow eyes, curious slivers that flicker from one side to the other as he assesses their surroundings with the impediment of his shades. Where Fell was born to a planet with three suns, Crowley’s people had evolved to thrive in darkness, and he squints against Lothal’s sunny skies. 

“All right,” he says, squaring his shoulders. 

Fells waits for Crowley to close his eyes first before following suit. He rolls out one shoulder and then the next, trying to ease the ache and tension. He doesn’t want to do this, yet he doesn’t _not_ want to either. It’s innate for an Engloran to seek out their bondmate despite it going against everything a Jedi believes. 

He was sixteen when he left the temple. “You must decide for yourself,” Master Fenix had told him, “which path you choose.” He unfurled one clawed hand and then the other. “Do you devote yourself to the Jedi Order, a life without attachment? Or do you walk the path of your people by bonding with another?” 

Somehow, he has done the unthinkable and become an imposter Jedi with a forbidden attachment. The chance to commit to the Jedi way is finally within reach. He’s not even sure if the other option—a bond— is still open to him if it ever was. 

This time, he anticipates the surge of power, the key amplifying the two Force users' connection. The temple feels far away, distant and cold compared to the searing presence beside him, and with a breath of resolve, he turns to reach for him instead. 

Their two contrasting energies brush against each other, black against gold, and Crowley hisses and rears back. Determined, Fell surges forward and entwines their powers together, sweat gathering at his collar in concentration. It hurts, a burning foreign sensation that sweeps Fell from his head to his toes, alighting every nerve-ending and every neuron. _We have to work together,_ he thinks. Neither of them as children had mastered the art of telepathy through the Force, but he hopes by being so connected, Crowley will hear him.

Instead of responding with words, he feels a shiver and flash of anger like a shock of electricity. Then something gives, and Crowley relents with a huff. Their two powers surge forward towards the temple.

With their eyes closed, neither can see the temple shifting, but Maricade looks on with her mouth open from outside the circle. What once was a single spire approximately ten stories tall begins to rotate and extend towards the sky. As the structure elevates, a new door appears. “That’s it! That’s the door!” But the spire continues to rise until the entrance is two stories up. She looks back at the key where both men stand separated, arms outstretched. “Stop! You have to go back!”

She lunges for the circle. Whatever is happening, both of them are unable to hear, but if she can just shake her master loose— 

With a sudden jolt, she’s thrown on her back the second she attempts to cross the ring. The key has created a barrier trapping Fell and the Serpent within. She looks back at the temple, the ground shaking and groaning as the tower continues to grow, another door appearing just as the whole spire creaks to a halt. 

Fell sighs and opens his eyes, breathless and tingling, and sees the temple has grown thirty-stories tall. But what surprises him most is the thrumming in his fingers and arms, a throbbing sensation in his chest that feels like its own separate, living entity. _Crowley_. He turns to look at the Demagan whose eyes are still shut, hand outstretched and lingering in the air. When he looks at Fell, his eyes are red and bloodshot, and his face bears the same shock. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Maricade says. “It just kept going!” 

Fell gives himself a mental shake, trying to find his footing again. “Temples are connected to the living Force,” he says, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat. “It grants us what we need, not necessarily what we want.” The expression on Crowley’s face is impenetrable, a flush high on his cheeks that runs down the vee of his open jacket. “It has chosen the way for us.” 

Crowley steps out of the circle first, affixing his glasses back on his face. “Bloody Jedi,” he mutters under his breath. Then louder, he says, “Let’s get this over with.” 

Fell watches him take quick strides towards the temple, but the thrumming in his chest doesn’t fade with distance. He rubs at his sternum. “I don’t think this will be as easy as we hoped,” he says to himself.

  
  


Maricade’s entire catalog of Temples She’s Been Inside has doubled to two, and so far, she isn’t impressed. Despite the towering size of the spire, the interior has no sunlight. It’s dark and decrepit and smells a bit damp. There’s a far-off leak of dripping water that could equally be a spring or an old abandoned pipe that echoes throughout the enormous empty chamber, a grating, constant _drip, drip, drip._ Her fingers slip over wet stone covered in moss, and she ducks when something flickers overhead. 

Beside her, the Serpent—Crowley—snorts. “Not much of a Jedi are you, little one, afraid of a harmless Loth-bat.”

She can hear the sneer in his voice. “Don’t call me that.” No matter that her master has made some sort of bargain with him, she despises the Serpent, and she admits she’s a little bruised at how easily he tricked her. Fell had called him a shapeshifter, he of many disguises and titles, the Serpent, the dark assassin, Darth Vivaris, and now Crowley, a name he seems to flinch at every time Fell says it. 

She looks around, avoiding several large boulders, and sees no outstanding feature, no pedestal or doorway like the other temple in Kleim. “What is this place?”

The entrance has led them to one large chamber with high vaulted ceilings. Long rock formations hang down from the top. It looks more like a cave more than a sanctuary. “It appears that this place has continued to grow on its own without the influence of the Jedi.” Fell’s voice rings clear in the wide-open space, echoing. “I believe if we meditate, the temple will show us what we’re looking for.”

Crowley hisses, and Maricade looks at him from the corner of his eye as he mutters, “Of course.” She blushes when she realizes she was thinking the same thing. 

Fell selects a floor space large enough for three people and adjusts his robes before settling cross-legged on the cold stone floor. He gestures for them to join him. “Not very comfortable, but I suppose it will have to do.”

“What should we be looking for?” she asks. 

“Now that the temple has accepted us, we can connect with it like each other. Clear your mind. Release your emotions. Seek the temple’s energy.”

Crowley folds in on himself as he sits down, a long fluid motion from standing to sitting. Maricade notices that he chooses to sit as far away as possible in the rocky spikes’ confined space. He leans against the stone and removes his hat, then brings his knees up to his chest, draping his long arms over his legs like he might settle in for a nap. “It’s a load of rubbish.”

Fell already has his eyes closed, hands resting on each knee. “Remember that you are in a Jedi temple. If you want it to give you the Holocron, then you must act like a Jedi.” 

He huffs and falls silent.

Maricade chooses a space next to her master and copies his movements, crossing her legs. Her eyes fall shut as she focuses on the slow drip of water, clearing her mind. She’s never connected to a building before and doesn’t know what to expect. She feels something brush against her, fleeting like an insect. It swoops around and presses against her skin a second time, firmer, accompanied by the smell of sun-soaked flowers. It prods at her, truly a living thing as Fell described it, poking at her. She stiffens at the intrusion before remembering what her master said, trying to relax. _Hello,_ she thinks at the soft billowing pressure. _I’m looking for something. Can you help?_

The wind picks up around her, and the ground tremors, shaking her out of meditation. When she opens her eyes, a large doorway appears across the chamber, glowing. “Um, Master Fell? I think I see something.” She turns to her master and shakes his arm. “There’s a door just over there.”

Both Fell and Crowley open their eyes and look. “What’s she on about?”

“I’m not sure. Maricade, there’s nothing there. Ah, unless—” Fell squeezes her arm. He gives a warm smile. “The temple has spoken to you. This is a path for you alone.” 

“I can’t go in there by myself!” 

He gives her another encouraging squeeze and then nudges her to stand up. “Trust the Force.” 

Fell sees the expression on her face, a mix of fear and excitement. He refrains from saying what he really means, that the temple is testing her. The memories of his time as a boy wandering the halls in Coruscant are still fresh, the times he’d stumbled through a foreign door or the time it decided to bar them from leaving their quarters for a whole afternoon. 

Something passes across Crowley’s face as though he’s caught remembering the same thing. Fell was nine, Crowley seven, and they spent a good twenty minutes hammering on the door before they realized they could use their commlinks to call for help. They received a somewhat bemused Master Fisto, always cheery, in response over their comms. He always seemed to smile in amusement, impervious to the goings-on around him. He exuded the epitome of Jedi peace in a way Fell still strives for and fails to reach every day, especially now, nerves alight, while sitting across from the person he’s been searching for since his return to the temple. “Obviously,” Fist said, “the temple believes you two have something to sort out. We’ll be waiting for you when you are ready to continue your lessons.” 

It was only then a young Crowley revealed he had eaten half of the sweets he’d snuck in from the lower levels, sweets he had given Fell in exchange for help with his studies. It took another twenty minutes of shouting, getting whapped by a training saber, and a broken datapad before the door finally slid open, and they barrelled out, bruised and tear-stained with their arms around each others’ shoulders. 

_God, does that feel so long ago,_ he thinks, looking at his long-lost friend. That’s what they used to be. Before they had accidentally entwined themselves—before Fell returned to Englora—they had been friends first. 

“May the Force be with you,” he tells Maricade. She nods once and slips through the invisible doorway without them. 

Now, he sits in the dark cavern alone with his enemy. 

  
  


“For what it’s worth—” 

“Don’t. I don’t want your platitudes.” Crowley sounds tired. Without Maricade, the bluster and sneering disappear. He keeps his eyes shut, fingers flexing where they rest on his propped-up knee. 

Fell looks at him for a long moment, just a shadow, a blip in the cavernous dark. Yet under his sternum, he feels their connection as it hums, constant and warm. He looks down at his lap and attempts to close his eyes once more. Crowley promises freedom from their bond, a knot that has twisted them together against their own volition. _But what if I don’t want to sever it?_ He’s spent years searching for any sign of him. When he found out what he’d become, who he had sided with, he was determined to bring Crowley home. 

Now he’s here, giving him the one thing that would truly fulfill him as a Jedi, a life without attachment. Crowley was his only friend as a child. No wonder he latched onto him. No wonder the living Force tied them together, two species who cannot live without forming connections and bonds to others. They had been children too powerful and unrestrained for their families to handle, and it was no accident they were put together as bunkmates. 

He should convince Crowley to return to the Light. That would be the responsible, Jedi-like thing to do. Deep down, however, he fears his intentions are more selfish.

 _I don’t want to let him go_ , he thinks. 

The temple shivers around him, and when he opens his eyes, Crowley is gone, and a clear white light spills across the chamber. A door. An answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References:  
> 1\. A lot of the lore and descriptions of the Jedi Temple on Lothal come from Star Wars: Rebels. Temples have strange properties as if they have their own personalities. They also can act as beacons. For example, Ezra was able to make contact with Master Yoda across the galaxy when he needed assistance. At the same time, Ahsoka was having haunting visions of her former master, Anakin Skywalker. Temples can be useful, but they also can amplify a Force-users worst fears. 
> 
> 2\. I have been taking a lot of inspiration from reading Kenobi by John Jackson Miller which used to be part of SW canon before Disney bought them out. If you love Obi-wan Kenobi as much as I do, this book is definitely worth the read. 
> 
> 3\. Also, thank goodness, I finally just figured out how to trick google docs into making em dashes. Now, if anyone can figure out how to stop the weird italics glitch when pasting into AO3, let me know.
> 
> 4\. And thank you to those of you who asked! We are doing a lot better and have recovered from being sick. We tested negative, so hopefully it wasn’t COVID!
> 
> The next three chapters will involve each character’s separate trial through the temple, each seeking not what they want but what they need.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory. A trial.

“Oh, kriff, get behind the door!” Crowley pushed Fell with two hands, grunting as he put his weight into it. Fell easily had a few stone on him after a growth spurt. It made him taller and more muscular. Crowley would be a perpetual late bloomer, it seemed, made of gangly limbs and uncoordinated feet that slipped on the floor in a hurry.

“I’m going! Stop pushing me!” Fell's voice had deepened over the summer, too, much to the Demagan’s annoyance. He spun and disengaged Crowley with ease, grabbing him by the wrist before yanking him out of the hall. They crammed themselves behind a pillar just as Master Fenix rounded the corner, and they held their breath. It wouldn’t do to get caught avoiding their chores for the evening. “You just had to sneak out the temple,” Fell sighed. 

“It was a good idea!”

“It was a terrible idea.”

“Shh—”

“Ah, Master Jocasta,” they heard Fenix say. The anx took long, sliding steps across the stone floor, stopping just on the other side of the pillar. 

From the opposite direction, a second set of footsteps arrived, light and quiet. “You asked to meet with me?” the librarian asked. Her voice was low and mellow, weathered with age, soft, and warm. Crowley made to peek around the corner, but Fell grabbed the back of his robes. 

“I need your guidance. I believe you are quite close with my padawan, Fell.”

“Indeed. I hear he’s done well with his trainings.”

Crowley shot the other boy a look, eyebrows raising as Fell tried to scoot forward to hear better.

“Quite well. In fact, it has been decided by the Council that his first trial will take place soon.”

Jocasta Nu gasped. “So soon?” 

There was a long pause. Crowley twisted around to look at his friend with wide eyes, finding the other boy just as shocked. Fell was only sixteen and had been training as a padawan for five years. Trials tested the padawan across nine different areas, and once completed, they would become a knight. Few, however, had ever reached knighthood as a teenager. 

“It’s more a necessity. The time has come for my padawan to return to his home planet to learn his people’s ways. He is of unusual talent, but with that comes unusual needs.”

“The bonding, you mean.” 

Fell and Crowley looked at each other.  _ Bonding? _ Fell mouthed in question. What the hell did that mean? Crowley shrugged as if reading his mind and shook his head. 

“It will be the first step towards knighthood for him, or it may be the end of his journey here should he decide not to return.”

Not return? Fell blinked, confused. Why would he ever want to leave the temple? Since he was two, this was the only life he’d known. All of his friends were here, his mentors. 

Jocasta Nu hummed in thought. Though he couldn’t see her, Fell imagined how she stood, arms crossed with one hand at her chin. She was methodical and precise in every movement she made. “The boy has spent many hours in the library with me, but never once has he asked about Englora.”

“I also have alluded to his species’… peculiarities with the Force,” Master Fenix said. “I have often wondered if perhaps Fell’s training has made him resistant to the needs of other Englorans. He is a smart and astute student and takes to his lessons with grave seriousness.” 

“Hah! I wish all the younglings and padawans were like that.”

Fell, blushing at the high praise, elbowed Crowley in the ribs. Still, an uneasiness swept over him. What did they mean by  the needs of other Englorans?

“Perhaps we have been wrong to exclude other Englorans and Demagans from becoming Jedi. Padawans Fell and Crowley are both bright and eager,” Jocasta said. 

“Yes, and always in each other’s back pockets," Master Fenix said, his tone wry. 

The boys shared a glance. “We better get out of here,” Crowley said. There was no real direction to go, however. Trapped behind a pillar, they hid in a long stretch of the hallway leading from the gardens to the Masters’ quarters, the only corridor left undefended by temple guards. Crowley had found a path—more like made one through years of trespassing—from the temple gardens to a side road where he could often hitchhike down to the lower levels of Coruscant, and he was determined to get Fell to the Ra Se Market if only to make him carry his own kriffing sweets back. 

“Look,” Fell said, his voice a harsh whisper. Behind them, a small crawlspace had appeared on the lower half of the wall. It looked like any other ventilation shaft except that it hadn’t been there a moment before. 

Crowley looked up at the ceiling and put his hands together.  _ Thank you! _ he mouthed at the temple. Then, carefully, he reached out to levitate the vent off the wall. He hissed. “It’s stuck! You try.”

Fell peered around the corner. Both the Jedi Masters had turned their talk to other goings-on in the temple and stood with their backs turned away from the two boys, looking out the tall floor-to-ceiling window over the gardens. “Okay, but we have to be quiet.” He always had the knack for levitation and manipulation and preferred it over his saber skills despite getting high marks in weapons training. He focused, brow furrowing as he pulled with the Force. Then he shook his head. “Ugh, no luck. Let’s try together.” 

Both boys reached out simultaneously, and Fell felt a little shiver run up his spine. His vision tunneled, focusing on the grate, and it popped off with a quiet  _ ping! _ All four screw flung off at once, and their freehands shot out to lock the flying objects in stasis. They breathed and looked at each other.

“Whoa.”

Fell breathed. He still hadn't mastered manipulating more than two objects at a time, and yet here they were holding onto five separate items with total control. “Okay, set it down quietly, or we’ll get caught." Then he groaned. _"_ _ Crowley, _ stop spinning the grate. Let’s go!” 

The vent and all four screws floated to the ground, landing with a quiet clink. The boys held their breath. Meanwhile, behind them, Masters Jocasta Nu and Fenix continued their idle chatter. “As a matter of fact, I think Padawan Kenobi would be the perfect fit for the job," Jocasta Nu said. "He's gotten more and more proficient with his lightsaber combat."

Fenix hummed in agreement, his chin flaps chattering. "I have been impressed with skill and talent thus far, even at such a young age."

Ignoring the grown-ups, Crowley pushed Fell into the vent and followed behind him. “Did you see that?” he asked. Fell grunted as his shoulders knocked into the sides of the shaft. “I’ve never done anything like that before! We just levitated the whole grate off!”

“Keep it down or they’ll hear us!” 

They reached the end of the tunnel, and he pushed on the metal vent until it popped free. Then he wiggled out, tugging on his uniform. “Crowley, get off my robes!”

“You kicked me in the face!”

Fell plopped out of the shaft, Crowley spilling out after him. “Um.” 

A calm, inquisitive voice greeted them. “Hello. Padawan Fell, isn’t it? And Crowley?” The boys looked up at a tall man standing barefoot in his tan tunic and matching trousers. He had a beard and long, brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. 

“‘S not our fault, Master Jinn. The temple led us here,” Crowley said, springing upwards. He pushed off Fell’s stomach as he did so, which earned him a rough kick in the shin. 

“No doubt because you were off causing trouble elsewhere,” Qui-Gon Jinn said. They were standing in his private quarters where the rest of the masters lived, separated from the younglings and padawans. The temple had led them from one trap to another. Typical. “Back to your quarters, both of you. I won’t report you to Master Yoda  _ this time, _ but only because I’m certain he knows what you’re up to.” 

The boys gulped.

* * *

Fell steps between the white, glowing doorway, looking behind as he leaves Lothal’s dark temple behind. When he turns around, he lets out a faint gasp, surprised to find himself in his mother’s gardens back on Englora.

“You’re a little weird, aren’t you?” he hears a voice ask. Though he hasn’t been to this place for at least a decade, that voice is as familiar as the grip of his lightsaber, the only person he’s had contact with since leaving his home planet.

“Anathema.” He turns around and finds a young girl standing beside the font, her dark clothes in stark contrast to the beautiful marble architecture. She wears a charcoal-colored skirt and gray blouse, her hair braided back out of her face. Her fledgling wings have just started to come in.

Fell looks down and sees his robes have disappeared and replaced with white trousers and a loose tunic, though he’s kept his current adult shape. When he first met her, he was sixteen, his shoulder blades aching and sore as his wings were coming in. It would take him months to learn how to control them and hide them again. He shivers thinking about Crowley doing this on his own, alone, who knows where a few years later. 

“Who are you?”

“My name is Fell,” he answers, distracted. He turns around and takes in the verdant fruit trees and tall marble pillars that lead to the main homestead. He doesn’t remember it being quite this idyllic and lush. “This is clearly a simulation by the temple.”

“You’re that Jedi guy,” Anathema says. “Did you quit?”

“Hardly.” He remembers this, he thinks, though it went a little differently. He had been very nervous, a tumbling mess. His cousins had laughed when he first arrived, fresh off of the freighter from Coruscant. He’d never been so far away from the temple before, and everything he knew about Jedi life and the bustling city was flipped on its head in this small, enclosed planet far beyond the Outer Rim. 

Anathema behaved differently than the others in the way she talked and dressed. Later, Fell would think she was almost  _ Demagan,  _ her dark hair and matching eyes, the ink-dipped tips of her primaries. Maybe Englorans and Demagans weren’t so different after all, he’d think. 

A long time ago, she once approached him with curiosity and not disdain. In this simulation, she’s just as he remembers her. “You keep looking over your shoulder,” she says. “Gabriel’s just a bully. Ignore him.”

Fell lets out a laugh. Standing in the garden, at age sixteen, he once wrung his hands over his cousin’s endless and said, “It’s all just so new to me, you see. It’s weird to think of this as home.” He hasn’t spoken to Gabriel much at all since returning to the Jedi Order, just a few missives and inquiries about his mother’s estate. He imagines he’s still very much an ass. 

Still, Anathema had pitied him. “You’ll get used to it. We can be friends.” 

He knows better now, tucking his hands in his sleeves. He stares at her, a younger version from a time when she was still all awkward limbs, attitude, and virtue. She was going to save the world. “I have someone who’s waiting for me back home.”

“Fell, this your home now,” she says. She gives him a pitying look. “You’re an Engloran. Englorans stay with their own because we thrive in a community.” 

God, he had been such a fool to believe it. “No, I—” He pauses, swallowing. Englora may not be his place anymore, but at age sixteen, he bought the lie, in dire need of answers, desperate for a solution to the crawling, aching feeling that had taken over in him. It started with a hollow dread in his gut, an emptiness that eked out more and more territory in his body. It clouded his connection with the Force and weakened his abilities. He’s grown so used to the constant fogginess that he almost forgets how terrible it had been on Englora after being separated from— 

He still can’t say it. Letting out a breath, he lets go of all the tension building in his shoulders and fists. “What if I’ve already bonded with another?”

Anathema makes a face and frowns. “Without another Enlgoran? I don’t think that’s possible.”

“What if…” He hesitates, swelling anxiety rushing forth. As a child, he didn’t know the right questions to ask. “What if it was with a Demagan?”

Her eyes grow wide, and she leaps up and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shh!” she says and then grabs him by the sleeve of his tunic. She jerks him behind a pillar out of sight of the main homestead. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that. You’ll be an outcast!” 

“I’m already an outcast. Surely, you don’t think I belong here, do you?” 

Fell leaving and returning to the Order later would ignite something in Anathema as a young woman. She’d be the only one to leave their oft-forgotten planet in search of something else. He has always felt a mix of guilt and pride over her departure, but she had dreamt of going long before he ever set foot on Englora. He was just the catalyst. 

“You know the story of Madame Tracy, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “She was a bit of a loony. Disappeared when I was four… or five? She tried to get a small group of people to support Reunification with Demaga, open up trade and education. She kept saying we could learn something from them since we’d been apart for so long.” 

“Well, what if she’s right?” Fell asks. Despite their civil war thousands of years ago, Demagans and Englorans were genetically still compatible enough even though their cultures and physiology had diversified in opposite directions. Otherwise, his bond with Crowley wouldn’t have been possible. 

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. She was ostracized and ended up leaving off-planet on one of the rare commerce freighters. Gabriel’s dad, your uncle, was a big part of that.” 

He looks behind them back at the house and then pulls her close. “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?” He knows this is a simulation, just the temple’s imagination, but he needs to understand how Anathema will react, needs to hear her approval. 

She nods, biting her lip. Pulling them closer to the hedge outlining the garden, they sit down on the ground out of sight. She gestures for him to go ahead, head in her hands with rapt attention.

He lets out a nervous breath and says, “Back at the temple, there’s a boy who is like me, brought to the Order due to his unusual abilities with the Force.” Looking down, his hands shake, and he flexes his fingers. It’s easier to look down than at her. “We’ve been friends ever since we were small, long before I ever understood the history between Englorans and Demagans.” 

“You’ve bonded to him?”

Fell nods. “I think so, at least. I’m not entirely certain how it happened.”

She nods, chewing on her lip, her expression one more of curiosity than judgment. “You know, we all form family bonds when we’re little with our parents and siblings. It happens naturally. Maybe he’s like that for you, your family.” 

It’s a nice thought. His bonds with other Jedi—Master Fenix and now Maricade—have never been as strong. Everything with Crowley came about by happenstance. They were in the same place at the same time, both lonely little kids with the same physiological need. Whatever the cause, they’re bound together now. He nods. “Like family, yes.”

She smiles at him, and a shiver passes through the air, a wash of sweetness from the nearby meadow. When she speaks again, he hears a ring in her voice, a powerful echo. “Good. I have something to show you. Follow me.” 

Anathema takes him by the hand and drags him through the gardens into the back entrance. He remembers this space well, the little mudroom that led to the kitchens, his favorite place to sit alone and think. It was a warm, sweet, contained space that always smelled like yeast and had the best sunlight in the house. 

However, this time, the white Byr-wood door opens before they even touch it, revealing a long, steep, stone stairwell that hadn’t been there before, a trick of the temple. This Anathema is nonplussed and continues onward, and their footsteps echo the deeper they go. It smells damp like the cave-like chamber of Lothal’s Jedi temple, and when they finally reach the bottom floor, the architecture is much the same, dangling rock formations and the dripping smell of petrichor. A wide-lipped basin stands in the middle of the room, just a simple stone structure melding into the floor as if it grew from the temple itself. 

She steps over and peers into it and then gestures for him to copy her. Inside is a swirling clear liquid, more viscous and thicker than water. 

“What do I do?” Fell asks and looks up at her. What he sees startles him. Her face has grown gaunt, eyes bigger and deeper. Her fingers curl and bend, like a proper Nightsister witch, a stark reminder that this is not his friend. This is the temple, a living, changeable, intelligent place that had learned from its inhabitants a long time ago. 

Her voice echoes when she speaks. “Give the temple something, and it will give to you in kind.”

He pats at his robes. He has nothing to give besides his lightsaber, not something with which he’s willing to part. “What sort of thing does it want?”

She shakes her head, and her once long and brown hair rattles. “It’s not what it wants. It’s what _ you  _ want. What do you value? What answer do you seek?”

_ Crowley  _ runs through his mind, and the temple judders around him. His hand lingers on his belt, first his lightsaber and then something both soft and barbed in turns. Clasping his hands around it, he pulls out the black feather he’d recovered from the Sith temple in Kleim, Crowley’s. 

In old Demagan magic, a being’s feather holds power. It contains a little piece of their essence. Fell has always been careful about his own feathers when he preens; his wings always kept tucked out of sight so he can blend in more with humans. To show one's true self to another is a gesture of immense trust and respect, and there have only been a few people in Fell’s life who have seen him that way. Anathema is one. 

Crowley is the other. He crushes the feather in his hand and shuts his eyes, dropping it into the basin. The strange liquid hisses and bubbles, dissolving it as it turns black. With a gurgle, the whole mixture begins to drain from the bottom of the bowl, leaving a dark, rectangular object in its wake. 

“What is it?” he asks, reaching for it. Hefting it in his hands, he realizes it’s a rather heavy, old book, something of a rarity in their day and age of datapads and holovids. Even Holocrons stored their information on computer chips, a mix of Force magic and technology working in harmony.

The doppelganger taps the bindings once, directing him to read the title. “You have passed your test. This is a gift from me to answer your question and lead you down the path you seek.”

He turns to read the binding written in an old Engloran language he vaguely recognizes from his brief studies back on his birth planet. Gasping when he opens the front cover, he reads the date. It’s over a million years old from a time before Englora’s civil war when Demagans were still just Englorans, when they were once united. 

He looks up to thank Anathema, but she’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References:  
> 1\. Yes! Obi-wan would be roughly a few years older than Aziraphale and Crowley in this. At this time, the Clone Wars have not yet started. 
> 
> 2\. [The Nightsisters](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Nightsisters) are a species of witches who live on a planet called [Dathomir](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Dathomir). I’ve taken a lot of Demagan inspiration from them! In the main Star Wars lore, mostly Jedi and Sith manipulate the Force, but there are many other species and religions that have some connection. This is why Demagans have their own style of magic, and they and Englorans develop Force bonds. We’ll learn more about this as we move forward.
> 
> 3\. Additionally, Crowley takes a lot of inspiration from one of my favorite characters in the extended universe, [Asajj Ventress](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Asajj_Ventress). She was a Sith assassin who studied under Count Dooku during the Clone Wars. In _Legends,_ she ends up straddling between Light and Dark, one of the few characters to do so. I heard a rumor that she was originally supposed to be a larger foe in the prequels, but she ended up taking a smaller role in the animated series instead. 
> 
> 3\. We will get to meet the real Anathema later on in the story. 
> 
> The next chapter will be Crowley’s trial which I’m very excited about. It’ll be the first time we see anything from his POV.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's trial and a little bit of a history lesson.
> 
> Edit: Adding a CW for some mild body horror and swearing.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale sitting on the other side of their small rocky clearing with his legs crossed and eyes shut, ever the good Jedi. Once, Crowley had been the better meditator, slipping into nothingness with a blink of an eye. He had enjoyed the emptiness, flicking each care and worry away in search of some more profound connection with the Force. Then he’d left the temple when it was clear Aziraphale wouldn’t return and learned the new artform of Battle Meditation.

Just like Jedi meditation, he took to Battle Meditation as easily as crawling on his belly, drawing all of his anger and ferocity together before focusing it into a single beam he could project onto others. He’d always found it satisfying, the moment of resistance—ever so brief—before the lesser mind succumbed to his own. Aziraphale’s playthings, the pilot and his play-pretend padawan had been easy to dive into and twist. They saw in him what he wanted them to see, and he had controlled their minds with hardly a breath. 

Battle meditation had been the more useful ability in the end, but now Crowley finds himself trapped in a Jedi temple, returning to the long-ago ways of his past, a time he’s been so desperate to forget.

Aziraphale looks so different. He supposes he must look different too, decades of time between them. The Engloran’s face has lost some of its roundness, and what were once tight rings of curls have frizzed and frayed at the ends. His hands and nails are as neat as ever, the lightsaber at his hip polished and in good condition as though it gets little use. Crowley thumbs at his own weapon while he examines his foe and feels it hum with anticipation. 

_Not yet,_ he thinks. The Force has brought them together again for a reason, and he means to see it through. With his black-gloved hand, he rubs at his chest where their bond thrums beneath his breastbone. Then he sighs and closes his eyes.

First, his anger tugs at him, a strong and powerful ally for a Sith lord. However, in order to communicate with the temple and get that blasted Holocron, he needs to let it go. There’s so much to unravel. Where does he begin—with Aziraphale’s intrusion, following him from Igith to Lothal? Why even pursue him now after leaving the temple, leaving Crowley like a boatless anchor sunk in the sea? Or does he tug at the coiled-hot thread of contempt he has for his master, Darth Bec, who left him on an abandoned mining moon when he failed to bring key leaders of the Confederacy to heel? 

Bec didn’t even have the decency to come to kill him, and he’s heard rumors of a new apprentice, another former Jedi in the dark lord’s clutches. 

Crowley clenches his fist and relaxes it, letting out a low hiss. _Let it go,_ he thinks. 

Suddenly, he feels a shudder through the temple and a blast of Force power whip through the cavern, unfettered and aimless. It smells sweet of charred wood and herbs, like standing over a fire pit on a cool summer’s night, a scent he spent twelve years amidst that had seeped into his robes and bedclothes and on the back of his tongue. It was the first sense he felt upon waking from a nightmare and the last scent as he drifted to sleep. 

He opens his eyes and finds himself alone in a long white hallway. He blinks against the brightness, always more familiar in dark spaces. Out of habit, he smooths down his lapels only to find his jacket missing, replaced with a black robe and trousers, a red loose-fitted tunic tucked into his waistband and belted with a sash. His hands have been taped for sparing, feet bare and cold on the tiled floor. 

The clothing the temple has chosen for him feels too much like his serpent-self, black on black with a danger-red belly. It’d taken him a decade to master the art of concealment, hiding his more alien-like features in a sea of mostly humans. Drawing attention to himself meant danger and risk, and here he is now in a glaring white hallway sticking out like a bug under a magnifying glass. 

Through innate ability and years of dedication, he walks through the hall with silent footsteps, the heel of his foot rolling off the ball of his foot. There are no doors, no light fixtures, no sound, just an endless tunnel with an eternal vanishing point that never seems to get closer. 

_Let it go,_ he thinks, closing his eyes. It feels like walking through a vacuum, so quiet he can hear his own blood rush through his veins. There is nothing here, nothing to feel or to fear. This is what it means to be a Jedi, he thinks, empty and void of all feeling. Left alone with just himself, the cloying anxiety rears up and takes hold of his breath, an invisible fist wrapped around his throat. He doubles over, tugging on the collar of his tunic, gasping. He loathes his, _hates_ it. “I’m not a Jedi,” he says, clawing at himself. “I don’t want to be a Jedi!” 

He lets out a snarl that echoes down the long hallway, and when he opens his eyes again he finds himself in the temple on Coruscant at the end of a long corridor. 

“Then what do you want?” a voice asks him. 

He turns around, mouth open and gulping for air. The tips of his fingers have gone white and numb and he scrambles for his lightsaber only to find it missing. He’s fallen on the ground, the knees of his trousers scuffed and skin scraped underneath. “Master Getchell,” he says with a sneer. “A figment of my imagination, I presume?”

She smiles, her orange lips twisting wryly. “Padawan Crowley.” 

“Not a padawan anymore.” 

“Quite,” she says with a nod. Her three headtails drape down her shoulders, patterned with blue and white stripes. The white coloration on her face make her eyes seem bigger and all-seeing. Her gaze bores into him. Crowley had always hated that when he was younger, his master always aware of his every move despite the number of times he tried to push his boundaries or sneak out of the temple. The sight of her makes him feel small, and he swallows against the bile rising in his throat. “Should I call you Darth Vivaris? Perhaps the Serpent? None of those ring true anymore, do they?” 

“You’ve come to test me. What do you want?”

“Tsk. Haven’t you learned? This isn’t about what I want. It’s about what you want.” 

From the end of the hallway, he hears a shout behind a closed door and whips around to look. Like a bludgeon to the head, the memory comes back to him. He knows his place, knows this conversation well. He recognizes the towering windows and the long stretch of stone that led to the infirmary. Behind a sealed hydraulic door, there’s another shout. “Will he be all right?” he asks. God, he thinks, how young he used to be, how small he sounded. 

She gestures towards the door and doesn’t flinch when the voice on the other side of the door cries out again. “It is part of his coming of age. We believe it will happen to you as well once you’re older.”

“He’s in pain. I could help.” 

“Crowley, this is for Fell to endure on his own. Your own time will come.” 

He’d woken up that morning to the sound of stifled whimpers. The sun hadn’t yet risen and their quarters were still dark. Tipping over the edge of his bunk, he peered down at Fell, curled in a ball and covered in sweat. In the dark, he could make out two dark stains on his friend’s back that smelled rich and metallic, and when he turned flipped on the light with a wave of his hand, he saw blood had pooled through his shirt and the sheets. 

“Nothing to worry about,” the healer had said. “His wings are coming in.” 

“Wings?” Crowley asked, shuffling on restless feet as he tried to look around the healer. 

“Yes, we have consulted the archives. There are a list of herbs native to Englora which should help, and we’ve sent for aid. In the meantime, he needs rest. You cannot wait in here.” The healer ushered him out of the infirmary and sealed the door shut. 

Two hours later, Crowley’s knees had gone numb from kneeling on the hard floor outside. After all, the healder didn’t say he couldn’t wait nearby, just not in the infirmary. He had skipped his trainings and chores to wait. 

“Master Fenix will be with him shortly,” Carh Getchell says. “He’ll help him prepare. In the meantime, padawan, you have trainings. It wouldn’t hurt for you to meditate either.” 

“Prepare him for what?”

His master brushes him off and folds her hands in her sleeves. “That is none of your concern. Your attachment to Padawan Fell is unbecoming of a Jedi. Return to your duties.”

His face flushes and he swallows, digging his fingers into the fabric of his trousers. Behind them, he hears Aziraphale cry out again. “If that’s what it means to be a Jedi, then I don’t want to be one.” 

“Be careful, young one. You tread the line between Light and Dark. To fall is not to plummet. It is far more delicate than that.”

Crowley feels his limbs grow heavy, exhaustion sweeping him. He knows how thin that line is now that he has crossed it, how easy it is to slip from one side to the next. Carh Getchell stares at him, her eyes dark and luminous, suddenly bigger than he remembers, two inky pools. “It’s not too late to choose, Crowley.”

Behind him, the door to the infirmary pings, the panel light switching from red to green. He spins on his knees and launches upwards, sprinting towards the door. From the other side he hears a shout. Last time, he couldn’t do anything. He waited outside for hours for Aziraphale until his master came and dismissed him, sending him to sparring practice. It had been a distraction, leaving his mind empty and body sore and tired. Meanwhile, they’d cleaned out their rooms, stripped the bedclothes of the blood and all of Aziraphale’s belongings. When Crowley finally made it back to the quarters, the older boy was already on a freighter to Englora, long gone. 

He slams the heel of his palm into the keypad, willing the door to open. It groans and then _whooshes_ as the hydraulics activate. Behind the door, he expects to find Aziraphale, sore and bloody and raw, age sixteen just like the last time he saw him. 

Instead, the infirmary door opens up to a dark grimy alleyway, Coruscant’s Underworld. His mouth falls open, a chill rushing through him. “No,” he says softly, “not this.” He looks behind him, but the temple is gone, replaced once more with the endless white hallway. He steps forward.

  
  


“Well, well, what do we have here?” A slimy voice speaks out from a dark corner of the alleway. From top to bottom, Coruscant never sleeps. There are always those who play at shadows in the dark, and Crowley knows this particular shadow well. 

He turns to look. He’d never seen two black eyes gleam that way in the dark before, the dim artificial light in the lower tunnels flickering. A man appears, his hair in disarray, yellow and stiff as straw, fingers dirty and smudged. Pus-filled warts bubbled off his face, and his tongue flicks out, sticky and stretched. 

“What’s a little Demagan doing out here alone? Where’s your mate?” the man says.

Another voice speaks out. “He’s too young to have a mate. Look at ‘im. He’s just a kid.”

“I’m fourteen,” Crowley says, fumbling for his belt. Ah, but no, he’d left his lightsaber at the temple when he fled. 

The second voice emerges, a woman with matted red hair and silver skin, scales speckling down the side of her face. She has white eyes with dark luminescent pupils stretched out in wavy slights the run horizontally. “He ain’t even got his wings yet. Look.” 

Crowley thinks back to Aziraphale, the broken skin on his back, the pitiful whimpers as feathers unfurled, matted and blood-stained. _Your own time will come,_ Master Getchell had said. How did these two know about the wings? “Who are you?”

The blond-haired man reaches out with coaxing fingers, long and bulbous at the end, gleaming in the low light. Later, Crowley will see his greenish-tinted skin up close, his amphibious features. “My name is Duke Hastur. This is my companion, Dagon. We’re just like you, Demagans.”

He’s never met another Demagan before, but he knows in an instant that they are not the same. There’s something dark and insidious swirling around the pair. “Duke of what?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I’m self-titled. I own a ship, _The Ligura_ , and this is my pilot. You look like you need a ride.” 

“He’s one of them serpent-types,” Dagon says. “We could use one of ‘em on our ship.” She turns the full force of her gaze on him and smiles, revealing rows of sharp, pointed teeth. “What are you doing down ‘ere anyway? A young thing like you?”

The words catch in Crowley’s throat. He can’t say, _I’m a Jedi,_ anymore. On instinct, he brings his hand up to the back of his head where his padawan braid had been before he cut it off. “I’m nobody. How do I know you’re really Demagan?”

“Ah,” the duke says, nodding, his voice mocking. “He’s very wise, isn’t he? Shall we show him?” He lowers his tan overcoat off his shoulders and tosses it on the ground, closing his eyes. With a shudder, two large appendages appear from his back, webbed like the fanned feet of an amphibian. They spread from his head down to his knees, extending out to his outstretched fingers. Then in an instant, they collapse again, folding in on themselves. 

Beside him, Dagon shivers. Around her, the air shifts and warps as two pale silver shapes spill from her back like water. Her appendages are more fin-like. They have less structure and flow behind her in rippling waves, catching on the dim light as they flutter. Crowley is mesmerized. “One day, you’ll get your own. I wonder what a snake’s wings look like?” she asks.

“Do you think he knows about shifting?” 

“Nah, he doesn’t look like he knows much about nothing.”

He bristles, balling his fists at his side. How foolish and naive he had been. His explorations of the Ra Se Market had not prepared him for the grueling Underworld of Coruscant. If these two hadn’t found him, surely someone else would have. “I know plenty. I know how to fight.”

“Well,” Hastur says, smiling, “then I think we could make a deal. We’ll give you transport with room and board on the Ligura. You can help us with your prowess.” 

Later, they would teach him the darker side of what it meant to be Demagan. They’d call him broken when he couldn’t form a bond like someone normal. “They corrupted you in that temple,” they would tell him. “It’s a good thing you got away.” And he would believe them.

When they ran out of use for him and discovered the true extent of his abilities, they sold him off to Darth Bec. He missed the cryptic, vague teachings of Master Getchell, but he learned to be hard, judicious and wary. Knowing all this now, joining the Ligura was still the better proposition than scavenging the Underworld. He needed a lift off the planet if he was going to find Aziraphale. 

“Deal,” he says, reaching out a hand. 

Hastur takes it and pulled him close, peering at him. “He looks too human,” he says. 

“He looks too Engloran,” Dagon adds. “But he will do.” 

  
  


Later, after they take him to the ship, carefully redirecting him from the cargo hold to his bunk, Dagon brings him to a small room behind the cabin. “This is the armory,” she tells him, tugging on a lever. The whole contraption groans as two rusted doors separate to reveal an arsenal of weapons. 

Crowley remembers this moment well. He had some rifle and pistol experience, but the vast array of weaponry was all new and exciting. Some were heavily modded beyond anything he had seen at the temple. He had felt a twinge of regret over leaving his lightsaber back in his bunk, but he wanted to leave that life behind.

This time, he reaches for the electrostaff, a long two-pronged weapon, charged at either end. It was a little too big for him when he was fourteen, but as an adult, it fits in his grip perfectly. There’s no singing sensation, no thrum of recognition from the weapon. It’s as Force-sensitive as a doorknob. Then, something catches his eye, something that hadn’t been there the first go-around, a small crystal, half the width of his palm, shaped like a prism and yellow in color with a black core. He glances at it from the corner of his eye and turns to face Dagon, collapsing the electrostaff expertly before fastening it to his belt.

“Brave choice,” she says. “You’re tougher than you look, or maybe stupider.” She turns back to the lever. 

Before the cabinet doors can slide shut, he tucks his hands behind his back, swiping the kyber crystal off the display. Crowley knows this is just a simulation, a show put on by Lothal’s temple, which knows he has the crystal. Still, he relies on subterfuge. He learned far too late not to trust Dagon, and he won’t make the same mistake again. With quick fingers, he tucks the proffered object up his sleeve. 

“Thank you,” he tells her. “You’ve been far too kind with your generosity.”

Dagon snorts. “We’ll see about that. Prove your worth or else we’re ditching you at the next outpost. And lose the upper-crust Standard accent. You’re running with bounty hunters now.” The whole ship shakes as the engines roar to life. She slaps him on the back and points the way back to the sleeping quarters. “That’s my cue. Go rest up.”

He watches her make her way back to the cockpit before relaxing, letting out a slow breath. Then he activates the keypad to the door. It slides open, not to the cramped, shared sleeping quarters but back into the vast and empty hallway of the temple, blindingly bright. He steps through the door, listening for the hiss of the door closing before palming the crystal in his hand.

Crowley looks at it. He can feel it thrum against his skin as if alive. In a way, it is. Every kyber crystal has its own energy, calling to different Force users. This one sings, warm and buzzing. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking out toward the empty hall. “Where the hell is the Holocron?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and References:
> 
> 1\. Crowley’s Sith and Jedi masters are made up but are loosely based on real characters from canon. I originally wanted to make Darth Tyranus (Count Dooku) his master for REASONS, but creating OCs gives me much more flexibility. Star Wars canon is massive and hard to keep organized in my brain.
> 
> 2.Master Getchell is a [Togruta,](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Togruta) like Master Shaak Ti and Ahsoka Tano. They’re just pretty, okay?
> 
> 3\. I have taken big liberties with how ‘demons’ appear in this story since unusual, alien-physiology is much more acceptable in this universe! I imagine that since separating from Englora, Demagans have diversified a lot, hence all the animal aspects. Englorans, not so much. Aziraphale does have a secondary aspect which we will get to see. 
> 
> 4\. Lastly, tenses are hard! I really struggled to write in an active voice that also took place in the past. If anything is confusing, please let me know. I waffled back and forth about tenses in this chapter a lot. 
> 
> Next chapter, Maricade will face her challenge.


End file.
